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P E M S . 



POEMS 



BY 



WILLIAM ELLEEY CHANNING. 







BOSTON: 

CHARLES C. LITTLE AND JAMES BROWN. 



MDCCCXLIII. 



*7 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1843, 

By William Ellery Chaining, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 



boston: 

PRINTED BY FREEMAN AND BOLLES, 
WASHINGTON STREET. 



CONTENTS 



EDWARD AND MARGARET .... 


1 


MEMORY 


. 10 


DREAMING 


. 15 


AUTUMN ODE 


. 23 


THE EARTH SPIRIT ..... 


. 26 


TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE . 


. 30 


THE HARBOR ...... 


. 33 


THE NIAGARA FALL 


. 35 


THOUGHTS 


. 36 


A POET'S LOVE 


. 42 



VI 



CONTENTS. 







PAGE 


GIFTS . 




. 45 


THE STARS . 




. 46 


THE LOVER'S SONG 




. 48 


SEA SONG . 




. 50 


BOAT SONG . 




. 51 


REVERENCE . 




. 54 


THE SPIDER . 




. 61 


THE PICTURE . 




. 64 


A SONG OF SPRING 


. 


65 


WINTER SONG 


. 


66 


HOME ..... 


. 


68 


ON RECEIVING SOME DRAWINGS 


. 


70 


OUR BIRTH DAYS 


• 


72 


WRITTEN IN THE EVENING OF A 


NOVEMBER DAY 


74 


INSCRIPTION FOR A GARDEN 


. 


76 


THE LOVER'S FEAR 


. 


77 


TO CLIO .... 


. 


78 


THE BENIGHTED TRAVELLER 


. 


80 


THE RIVER .... 


. 


81 


THE POOR MAN 


... 


83 



CONTENTS. Vil 

PAGE 

STILLWATER 87 

FAREWELL 86 

MOONLIGHT 88 

TO ANNA 89 

THE SIBYL TO HER LOVER 90 

A poet's HOPE ....... 96 

THE TEMPLE 101 

OCTOBER ........ 102 

THE POOR ........ 105 

FADING AWAY 107 

FOR A WOOD SCENE IN WINTER .... 108 

UNA 110 

PAST 113 

THE FRIENDS . . 115 

CONTENT . . . . . . . .119 

WRITTEN AMONG THE LENOX HILLS . . . 121 

SONG 123 

TO BESSIE 124 

THE SEA 125 

AUTUMN'S APPROACH 126 



Vlll CONTENTS. 






PAGE 


THE ISLAND 


. 128 


I. The Point 


. 128 


II. The Little Bay ... 


. 130 


III. The Little Islands 


. 131 


IY. The Bridges .... 


. 133 


DEATH 


. 135 


SONNETS 


. 141 



POEMS. 



EDWARD AND MARGARET. 



Not rudely built that ancient hall, whose doors 
Held widely open by the unsparing hand 
Of active charity, gave amplest welcome ; 
Nor unadorned around with graceful trees, 
Whose music all the seasons through was heard 
Within the cheerful mansion. This abode, 
Framed for the occupation of content, 
Looked down upon a valley, where one lake 
Received into its depths some circling hills, 
Green in the summer, with majestic growth 
Of lofty cedars, and time-hallowed oaks, 

And the gay foliage of the birch and ash, 
1 



EDWARD AND MARGARET. 

The sudden storms, nursed in the mountain's arms, 
Visited that tranquil landscape in brief kind, 
Coming with mighty speed, scarce touching there, 
As if that valley were too fair for violence. 

In this calm spot dwelt the sweet Margaret, 
A maid of ruddy cheek and meaning eye, 
Gentle, and good, and eloquently fair. 
From earliest childhood, she had trod the paths 
Leading among those wild precipitous hills, 
Delight to trace the mountain-brook's descent, 
Through shelving rocks, and deep, embowered linns, 
Where, when the first warm beams of spring had come, 
The fearless birds sang with the dashing spray. 
Nor less in winter, mid the glittering banks 
Heaped of unspotted snow, the maiden roved, 
Charmed by the neat severity of frost. 

And Margaret dwelt within the ancient hall, 
The sunlight of her home, her parents' joy ; 
So framed for social converse, that the hut, 
Or poorest shed of sorry cottager, 



EDWARD AND MARGARET. | 

Had laughed with pleasure in her gladsome smile. 
Her mind had harbored only virtuous thoughts, 
Good wisdom that the Book of Life had taught, 
Unceasing love for man, respect for worth, 
And such calm judgment as a happy life, 
Spent with industrious aims and filial pride, 
Confers upon an innocent maiden's heart. 
Sixteen fair summers bloomed upon her cheek, 
That cheek unchannelled by an angry tear, 
And dimpled with the modesty of youth. 
But, from that clear, free air in which she lived, 
The breath of mountain independence, she 
Had caught a purpose firm and resolute, 
Exacting honesty of speech, and something 
Masculine almost, though softly carved in grace. 

A stranger to the hamlet, Edward came, 

From cities built afar, a nervous voyager, 

To whom the streets crowded with anxious toil 

Were weariness of life. But twenty years 

Had marked his thoughtful brow, and this small space 

Filled with irregular days, and nights as sad, 



EDWARD AND MARGARET. 

Sufficed to bruise a sympathetic heart, 
Asking for love, — receiving careless words. 
A narrow bridge across life's arrowy foam, 
Is all that shrinking poverty controls, 
And yields this straitened path to forward wealth. 

To Edward's mind, the outward world supplied 

The decorative gauds of pomp and show ; 

The liberal sky blazed freely forth for him, 

The countless worlds of space, the landscape smiled, 

And days among the hills were days of gold. 

To him, this calm, secluded hamlet seemed 

A tranquil island in the ocean's storm. 

He did forget what he had lately shared, — 

To follow mutely after empty state, 

Supply by thought the indolence of wealth, 

And frame for others that they could not shape. 

The influences of this serene isle 

Composed his turbulent fancies into dream. 

Couched on the grass, beneath the monarch trees, 

lie drew fine pictures on the swimming air. 

No longer careworn with his daily needs, 



EDWARD AND MARGARET. 

He revelled in a future, shining gay. 

Thus might his life have passed in gentle thoughts, 

If only silent trees, and purling brooks 

Had varied that small hamlet's seeming calm. 

But he had seen upon those lonely hills 
A maiden's form, one mellow evening, stand, 
Gazing in mute surprise upon the clouds 
That piled their snowy summits in the west. 
Lost as in trance, he dwelt upon the lines 
Rounding her vermeil cheek, her stately brow, 
Until her image, stamped upon his heart, 
Defied the golden sunset, the bright clouds, 
And broke that soft tranquillity in twain, 
In one swift instant, never more to form. 

On the next Sabbath, to the village church 
Edward and Margaret came, how different ! 
She cast a modest glance upon the youth, 
His stranger mien demanding some respect, 
Then studious bent her soul on pious quest, 
The youth forgotten, as he had not been. 



EDWARD AND MARGARET. 

How should she mark that wild and eager eye, 
How should she read the secrets of his heart ! 
The week went by, and still another came, 
And Edward sought the prints of Margaret's foot, 
Along the streamlet's bank, and up the dell, 
Even to the midst of that deep solitude 
Where she was seated, braiding a green wreath, 
Of the broad ferns that seek the utmost shade. 
Yet even here a sunbeam wandered down, 
And touched a golden curl of Margaret's hair, 
And as she turned at Edward's soft approach, 
That thread of light caught in her sparkling eye, 
As if to pierce the rash intruder through. 

Then first, she listened to dread passion's voice, 

Toned with rich melody, but echoing 

A dark and awful fate, if unreturned. 

In gentle accents, with unheeded pace, 

The youth thus poured his inmost thoughts for her 

Nay ! look not on me with surprised air. 
Have I not marked thy wanderings even here, 
Where but the wind has entrance ? Am I not, 



EDWARD AND MARGARET. 

One of thy lineage, though less beautiful ? 
Do not these shapely trees associate near, 
To listen with glad ears to those sweet songs, 
Which the wild birds pour in united notes, 
And speeding on the way, the headlong brook 
Conceals not its clear charms from any eye. 

! if these forms thus picture forth my heart, 
How much more thou, twin image of my soul, 
Myself, concealed in a diviner shape. 

1 do remember thee, as first I saw 

Thy sweet, proud figurfc, where the setting sun 

Vainly contrived to render thee more bright, 

And dressed with splendor mosses at thy feet, 

And built sublimest palaces within 

The sky ; yet only thee I saw, and now 

And ever thou art in my eyes the same. 

I wander through where never man hath trod, 

I seek most desolate regions, and dim caves, 

Where only reptiles crawl and hiss at me, 

I stand below the precipice, and ask 

The mighty rocks to fall and bury me, 

So that I may shut out thy speechless beauty, 



8 EDWARD AND MARGARET. 

That compels me on, through wood, and fell, and moor, 

Alone, yet in the breath of thy own being. 

This gale, beneath which all my powers have bent, 

Has borne me to thy feet, and now I seek 

The shelter of thy love, my only hope. — 

Its own wild music, by this wilder tale 

Was hushed, the brook no longer foamed, the wind 

Among the trees was stilled asleep, at least 

To Margaret and Edward in their trance. 

By different ways they left that lonely spot, 

And Margaret mused upon her blessed home. 

Next morn some peasants passing by the lake, 
Saw the fresh morning gild a floating corpse, 
Outstretched in placid slumber. On the face 
A tender smile was lingering, as to say, — 
This place of sepulture is girded round 
With an enchanting beauty, once like thine. — 

When Margaret heard the tale of Edward's death, 
More solemn seemed the duties of her home, 



EDWARD AND MARGARET. 9 

And to her mother, who had heard the tale 

Of helpless love, and Edward's frenzied looks, 

She said : — How sad a fate was this, so young, 

So fragrant was this flower, so soon cut off 

By this strange mystery. — Then she replied : — 

O Margaret, let us still more learn from this, 

How the small bounds of home embrace the whole, 

And never leave these sweet and sheltered spots. 

As I have taught you, cheerful industry, 

And regular tasks pursued with patient thought, 

And the loved fireside of domestic peace, 

With reverence for man, and charity, 

Will strengthen, and preserve us from the dark, 

Impenetrable agonies of life. 



MEMORY 



i. 

I saw the pine trees on the shore 

Stand solemn in their dark green shroud, 

I heard the winds thy loss deplore, 

Whose beauty worlds had fleetly bowed. 



Thy beauty ! God's own hand did press 
Thy rich curls round thy Grecian brow, 

And wound thee in lithe loveliness ; — 
I see thee standing by me now. 



MEMORY. 11 



I hear thy solemn anthem fall 
Of richest song upon my ear, 

That clothes thee in thy golden pall, 
As this wide sun flows on the mere. 



Away — 't is Autumn in the land, 

Though Summer decks the green pine's bough, 
Its spires are plucked by thy white hand, — 

I see thee standing by me now. 



ii. 
I dress thee in the withered leaves, 

Like forests when their day is done, 
I bear thee as the wain its sheaves, 

Which crisply rustle in the sun. 

Thou trackest me, as bloodhounds scent 
The wanderer's feet, all down the glen ; 

Thy memory is the monument 
That dies not out my heart again. 



12 MEMORY. 

So swift the circling years run round 
Their dizzy course, I hope to hide ; 

But till they lay me 'neath the ground, 
My resting-day shall be denied. 



Thou, summer sun, wilt pity me, 

Thy beams once gladly sought my brow, 

My love, I wandered then with thee, — 
I see thee standing by me now. 



in. 
A thousand flowers enchant the gale 

With perfume sweet as love's first kiss, 
And odors in the landscape sail, 

And charm the sense with sudden bliss. 



But fate, who metes a different way 
To me, since I was falsely sold, 

Hath gray-haired turned the sunny day, 
Bent its high form, and made it old. 



MEMORY. 13 

Age freezes me on every side, 

Since thy sweet beauty died to me, 

And I had better youthful died, 

Than broke such loving troth to thee. 



I see the hills where heaven stoops 
To seize the shadows off their brow, 

But there my nature downward droops, — 
I see thee standing by me now. 



IV. 

Come Time — come Death, and blot my doom 
With feller woes, if they be thine, 

Clang back thy gates, sepulchral tomb, 
And match thy barrenness with mine. 



O moaning wind along the shore, 

How faint thy sobbing accents come ! 

Strike on my heart with maddest roar, 
Thou meet'st no discord in this home. 



14 MEMORY. 

Sear, blistering sun, these temple veins ; 

Blind, icy moon, these coldest eyes ; 
And drench me through, ye winter rains, 

Swell, if ye can, my miseries. 



Those dark, deep orbs are meeting mine, 
That white hand presses on my brow, 

That soft, sweet smile I know, 't is thine, 
I see thee standing by me now. 



DREAMING 

TO . 



Now may I thee describe a Paradise, 

That in the olden day I chanced to see, 
And plainly in my inward mirror lies 

The shape of that divine festivity ; 

So, brief may I interpret it to thee, 
Return for graceful prose of such a measure 

As in no rhyme will e'er pertain to me ; 
For I have not of life abounding leisure, 

I live not in gay rhyme, though that would be my 
pleasure. 



There was a plain beneath a summer sky, 
Stretching away to mountains like blue air, 

Whose points, though surely not to heaven nigh, 
Did ever a most azure vestment wear, 



16 DREAMING. 

On whose pure heights man's life became more rare ; 
So when we meet a soul of great design, 
Its noble presence is a weight to bear, 
Capped with pure snows, on which the few rays shine 
Of this world's gratitude, now in a swift decline. 

Scattered upon the plain were holy trees, 
Those moving, yet immovable ideas ; 

They trembled for the little western breeze, 
So full of thought, so subdued to bright fears, 
While they o'erlast the number of our years. 

Birds reared their young in them, fearing no harm, 
For then upon the plain were shed no tears, 

But all were swelling in the sunlight calm, 
There was most perfect peace, that never felt alarm. 

On a clear stream, o'er pebbles tinkling shrill, — 
In the embraces of a varied mass 

Of very sumptuous trees, whose mouths could fill 
Its roof with music from the winds that pass, 
Mixed with some whispers from the bright green 
grass, 



DREAMING. 17 

A temple stood, — its roof enchased all 

With artists' history. What tale it was 
I cannot think ; a solemn funeral 
It may perchance have been, teaching from that gray 
wall. 

This temple w r as a font of the best art, 
A juvenescent shape of pleasant thought, 

Such as would steal within thy inmost heart ; 

Oh, with what precious hands, its figures wrought, 
By learning from a life of love, 't was brought : 

The pillars rose with fine proportioned air, 
To them the entire world was plainly nought, 

They such complete self grace did always wear, 
And in the radiant light their pious roof upbear. 

And underneath this solemn, stately roof, 

Two dwelt, save . when they wandered near the 
plain, 
Who from each other never kept aloof, 

But sometimes from the beach would hear the 
main, 

2 



18 DREAMING. 

Or see the early stars, a mild, sweet train, 
Come out to bury the diurnal sun. 

There was such steadfast union in the twain 
They both each day of life at once begun, 
With them each day of life at the same time was done. 

One's hair was brown and soft, and liked to play 

Around a neck whose meaning was quite clear, 
It fell about her face, — an early day, 

So she did in a kind of mist appear ; 

Her eye was liquid with a gentle fear, 
She felt a joy in her timidity : 

The other did her imitate most near, 
But not so mild nor eloquent was he, 
And both at morn and eve he bent the willing knee. 

I leave thee — the maid spoke to the true youth — 
This is the day I promised to return ; 

But soon I come to you again, in truth 
To tend the fire perpetual of our urn, 
Of our delightful plain again to learn 



DREAMING. 19 

Rich lessons. — The sun lay upon the line 

Of the last height ; the stars were soon to burn, 
The youth his front in silence could decline, 
In a most pure belief his every thought resign. 

Long time had passed ; the maid was drest in state, 

Wild flared the odorous lamps, church music rung, 
The hour was of the darkest midnight late, 

As tolled the heavy bell with iron tongue ; 

Meantime in dewy woods brisk crickets sung, 
And shrieked from nodding towers the sharp-toned 
owl, 

Sitting upon his throne with ivy hung : 
And miserable priest drew tight his cowl, 
And in the city's depths the murderous deeds broke foul. 

With the fair maid a youth of beauty stood, 

W^hose countenance was touched with withering 
scorn ; 

Of no content and reverential mood, 

But a poor wanderer of the world forlorn, 
In whom the bad array was ever born 



20 DREAMING. 

Of discord, hate, and forms I will not name, 

A sun uprising in a cloudy dawn, — 
The maid was loving this enamored same, 
For burned within her breast a most disastrous flame. 



Lying on fragrant leaves the youth was seen, 
In the sweet temple on the plain so wide. 

What perfect picture had his short life been ! 
His ways had joyous nature ne'er belied, — 
But then, how was it he so soon had died ? 

For a few bones were in the temple fair, 
The graceful pillars round it did abide ; 

Fanned them the softly entering, singing air, 
The same mild aspect rose, was all devoid of care. 

A meek old man was reading from a page, 

Reclined not far from the sweet temple's door ; 

He must have been a man of longest age, 
And promised now to last of years a store. 
The sunlight painted him all freshly o'er ; 



DREAMING. 21 

With quiet face and soft entrancing eye 

He sate, as silent as a rocky shore, 
That listens to the ocean's lullaby, 
Nor moves its placid front though waves roar fright- 
fully. 

Presently came along the unworn road 

A troop of people, and their mules, whose bells 

Merrily jingled o'er oppressive load. 

They stopped to breathe at one of the clear wells 
Of that old country, which forever swells 

From a most curious, ancient, carved stone ; 
And musical a tale it always tells, 

Ever a thinking song it sings alone, 
Coming from middest earth, and of the blessed Un- 
known. 

They quickly passed away ; the sage sate still, 
And twilight melted down on stream and vale ; 

Nor did he move from his repose until 

The moon was gleaming like torn silver mail, 
And through ethereal deeps went gently pale ; 



22 DREAMING. 

Then closing up his book, he silently 

Removed, saying in thought, — Shall not avail 
This summer rest, O lovely one ! To thee, 
Who ere thy real time put on that sanctity. 



To thee should these few simple lines convey 
A pleasurable sense of my own mind, 

Which from my earliest youth, the frailest lay 
Has to me shadowed out in no great kind, — 
In that I shall a perfect pleasure find ; 

And in a future day may thee present 

With thoughts as permanent as shifting wind. 

Yet now believe that these are kindly meant, 
Though with no real life is this small story blent. 



AUTUMN ODE 



By the waterfall, and the lone road side 

Flowers of an hundred hues have died ; 

For the lonely gale is sighing deep, 

Over the valley and over the steep, 

And the soul of Autumn is haunting the day, 

And nothing but sorrow, for nothing is gay. 

The leaves of the forest are changing their hue, 
They are yellow and red like a carpeted pew, 
They moan in the wind like an orphan child 
Whose mother lies dead on the moorland wild. 
Not so in the Spring 
When the green leaves cling 
To the truthful trees, like a lover's heart 
To her whom he loves, and who cannot part. 



24 AUTUMN ODE. 

Then sang the Spring like a hymn of joy, 
In the sunny sheen of the glossy bough, 

Whilst her breath with the wavy grass did toy, — 
The grass which is withered so yellow now, — 

Notes of the breeze, of the sweet breeze warm, 

A thousand leagues off from a thought of storm. 

Then, on the banks of the rushing stream, 

The tall polished stalks of the flowers rose up, 

Then must one lie and sweetly dream, 

While happiness glowed in his full life's cup, — 
It is over now. 

Chill and cold comes the autumn wind, 

Snow and ice it is hiding behind, 

And its hands are full of unnumbered blights, 

To stand in the room of the sunny lights, 

Which wove the gold fruits on the orchard's breast, 

And lined the soft wall of the wood-bird's nest. 

The song of the Summer has faded away, 
Her life she gave up in the last warm day. 



AUTUMN ODE. 25 

No more are her steps on the flowery hills, 
No more the soul of the wood she fills 
With those snatches of joy, and that rustling light 
That sparkled like gems in the sun so bright. 



THE EARTH SPIRIT. 



^P ^ ^ ^ff ^ w 

Then spoke the Spirit of the Earth, 

Her gentle voice like a soft water's song ; 
None from my loins have ever birth, 

But what to joy and love belong ; 
I faithful am, and give to thee 
Blessings great, and give them free. 

I have woven shrouds of air 
In a loom of hurrying light, 

For the trees which blossoms bear, 

And gilded them with sheets of bright ; 



THE EARTH SPIRIT. 27 

I fall upon the grass like love's first kiss, 

I make the golden flies and their fine bliss. 
I paint the hedge-rows in the lane, 

And clover white and red the pathways bear, 
I laugh aloud in sudden gusts of rain, 

To see the ocean lash himself in air ; 
I throw smooth shells and weeds along the beach, 
And pour the curling waves far o'er the glassy reach ; 
Swing birds' nests in the elms, and shake cool moss 
Along the aged beams and hide their loss. 
The very broad rough stones I gladden too ; 

Some willing seeds I drop along their sides, 
Nourish the generous plant with freshening dew, 

Till there, where all was waste, true joy abides. 
The peaks of aged mountains, with my care 

Smile in the red of glowing morn elate ; 
I bind the caverns of the sea with hair, 

Glossy, and long, and rich as king's estate ; 
I polish the green ice, and gleam the wall 
With the white frost, and leaf the brown trees tall. 



28 THE EARTH SPIRIT. 

'T was so, — f was thine. Earth ! thou wast true 

I kneel, thy grateful child, I kneel, 
Thy full forgiveness for my sins I sue, 

My mother ! learn thy child can think and feel. 

Mother dear ! wilt pardon me, 
Who loved not the generous sun, 

Nor thy seasons loved to hear 

Singing to the busy year ; — 

Thee neglected, — shut his heart, 

In thy being had no part ? 

Mother dear ! I list thy song 

In the autumn eve along ; 

Now thy chill airs round the day 

And leave me my time to pray. 

Mother dear ! the day must come, 

When I, thy child, shall make my home, 

My long, last home amid the grass, 

Over which thy warm hands pass. 

Ah me ! do let me lie 

Gently on thy breast to die ; 

I know my prayers will reach thy ear, 



THE EARTH SPIRIT. 29 

Thou art with me while I ask, 
Nor a child refuse to hear, 

Who would learn his little task. 
Let me take my part with thee 

In the gray clouds, or thy light, 
Laugh with thee upon the sea, 

Or idle on the land by night. 
In the trees I will with thee, 
In the flowers, like any bee. 



I feel it shall be so. AVe were not born 

To sink our finer feelings in the dust ; 
And better to the grave with feelings torn, 

So in our step strides truth and honest trust 
In the great love of things, than to be slaves 

To forms, whose ringing sides each stroke we give 
Stamps with a hollower want. Yes, to our graves 

Hurry, before we in the heavens' look live, 
Strangers to our best thoughts, and fearing men, 
And fearing death, and to be born again. 



TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE. 



A light is in thine eyes, — an endless day 
Has risen, and an eterne sun now paints 
The dim and drear cold regions of this world. 
She whom thy love did honor, now hath pledged 
Obedience, faithful care, and life to thee. 
Now the stern winter, with his snowy hair, 
Droops thy fine fantasy with no vile frost, 
And disappointment with a keen-edged knife 
Cuts never more the cable of thy joys. 
Down to the inlet's shores, wherein thy bark 
Rides at its anchor, the sweet flowers are edged ; 
Violets and roses bloom, and the green grass. 
Whatever scents the air, like hidden notes 



TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE. 31 

Of some rare instrument, or charms the gaze, 
This lives for thee. — I also honor thee. 
Though outward cold, and wanting show of love, 
My memory haunts the gladness of old days ; 
And in the sunny nooks of those warm thoughts 
Which are the pictures of our former years, 
I, like a tired child, still love to lie. 



By the dark river ; — in the magic tents 
Of the rich trees, with sunlight creeping through, 
I wander yet, and see thee stand amazed 
At all the prodigal beauty. And beyond, 
Where level fields, their distance marked by elms, 
Stretch to the azure river, I yet roam ; 
Or on the mountains stand, as in those days ; 
So fair, so glad are those past years to me. 
Those are my jewels ; for these later times 
Are drawn in other figures. Not friendless, 
While thou yet hauntest here, the truest friend, 
Whom idlesse, distance, form and show of love 
Cannot dissever. Thanks for all to thee. 



32 TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE. 

A shade is on my life. No more to me 

The green trees and blue skies yield up their joy ; 

A fatal, fatal shade is on my days, 

And though I smile, and seem to be as light, 

As merry, and as humorsome as most, 

The past, dear friend, casts darkness upon me. 

No more, — no more of this. Joy to thee, friend, 

Long life, and always glad ; like a green tree, 

Whose branches sing a summer melody. 

And now farewell ! The moon is riding up 

The serene azure. The keen stars are now 

Dressed in their whitest garments. Thro' the mask 

Of that consuming beauty which burns out 

In song, in picture, most of all in love, 

I see how Heaven hath blessed thee. Now 

farewell. 
It is a word, — sometime a thought of joy, 
Sometime of sorrow. Joy to thy future. 



THE HARBOR. 



No more I seek, the prize is found, 
I furl my sails, my voyage is o'er ; 

The treacherous waves no longer sound 
But sing thy praise along the shore. 

I steal from all I hoped of old, 

To throw more beauty round thy way ; 

The dross I part, and melt the gold, 
And stamp it with thy every-day. 

I did not dream to welcome thee ; 

Like all I have thou earnest unknown, 
An island in a misty sea, 

With stars, and flowers, and harvests strown, 
3 



34 THE HARBOR. 

A well is in the desert sand 

With purest water cold and clear, 

Where overjoyed at rest I stand, 

And drink the sound I hoped to hear. 



THE NIAGARA FALL, 



'Tis the boom of the fall with a heavy pour, 

Solemn and slow as a thunder cloud, 

Majestic as the vast ocean's roar, 

Though the green trees round its singing crowd ; 

And the light is as green as the emerald grass, 

Or the wide leaved plants in the wet morass. 

It sounds over all, and the rushing storm 
Cannot wrinkle its temples, or wave its hair. 
It dwells alone in the pride of its form, 
A lonely thing in the populous air. 
From the hanging cliffs it whirls away, 
All seasons through, all the livelong day. 



THOUGHTS. 



i. 
The Bible is a book worthy to read, 
The life of those great Prophets is the life we need, 
From all delusive seeming ever freed. 

Be not afraid to utter what thou art, 
'T is no disgrace to keep an open heart ; 
A soul free, frank, and loving friends to aid, 
Not even does this harm a gentle maid. 

Strive as thou canst, thou wilt not value o'er 
Thy life ; — thou standest on a lighted shore, 
And from the depths of an unfathom'd sea 
The noblest impulses flow tenderly to thee ; 
Feel them as they arise, and take them free. 



THOUGHTS. 37 

Better live unknown, 

No heart but thy own 

Beating ever near, 

To no mortal dear 

In thy hemisphere, 

Poor and wanting bread, 

Steeped in poverty, 

Than to be in dread, 

Than to be afraid 

From thyself to flee. 

For it is not living, 

To a soul believing, 

To change each noble joy 

Which our strength employs, 

For a state half rotten, 

And a life of toys ; 

Better be forgotten 

Than lose equipoise. 

How shall I live ? In earnestness. 
What shall I do ? Work earnestly. 



38 THOUGHTS. 

What shall I give ? A willingness. 
What shall I gain ? Tranquillity. 
But do you mean a quietness 
In which I act, and no man bless ? 
Flash out in action, infinite and free, 
Action conjoined with deep tranquillity, 
Resting upon the soul's true utterance, 
And life shall flow as merry as a dance. 

Being, — not seeming, 
Thinking, — not dreaming, 
Heavenward tending, 
To all nature bending, 
In transport unending ; 
Then shalt thou follow 
The flight of the swallow ; — 
In a green flowery spring 
Thy life 's on the wing. 

ii. 
Life is too good to waste, enough to prize ; 
Keep looking round with clear unhooded eyes ; 



THOUGHTS. 39 

Love all thy brothers, and for them endure 
Many privations, the reward is sure. 

A little thing ! There is no little thing ; 
Through all a joyful song is murmuring, 
Each leaf, each stem, each sound in winter drear 
Hath deepest meanings for an anxious ear. 

Thou seest life is sad ; the father mourns his wife and 

child ; 
Keep in the midst of sorrows a fair aspect mild. 

A howling fox, a shrieking owl, 

A violent distracting Ghoul, 

Forms of the most infuriate madness, — 

These may not move thy soul to gladness. 

But look within the dark outside, 

Nought shalt thou hate, and nought deride. 

Thou meetest a common man, 
With a delusive show of can ; 



40 THOUGHTS. 

His acts are petty forgeries of natural greatness, 

That show a dreadful lateness 

Of this world's mighty impulses; a want of truthful 

earnestness : 
He seems, not does, and in that shows 
No true nobility, 
A poor ductility 
That no proper office knows, 
Not even estimation small of human woes. 

Be not afraid ; 
His understanding aid 
With thy own pure content, 
On highest purpose bent. 

Leave him not lonely, 

For that his admiration 

Fastens on self and seeming only. 

Make a right dedication 

Of all thy strength to keep 

From swelling, that so ample heap 



THOUGHTS. 41 

Of lives abused and virtue given for nought. 

And thus it shall appear for all in nature hast thou 

wrought. 
If thou unconsciously perform what 's good 
Like nature's self thy proper mood. 

A life well spent is like a flower 
That had bright sunshine its brief hour ; 
It flourished in pure willingness, 
Discovered strongest earnestness, 
Was fragrant for each lightest wind, 
Was of its own particular kind, 
Nor knew a tone of discord sharp ; 
Breathed alway like a silver harp, 
And went to immortality, 
A very proper thing to die. 



A POET'S LOVE, 



I can remember well 

My very early youth, 
My sumptuous Isabel, 

Who was a girl of truth ; 
Of golden truth ; — we do not often -see 
Those whose whole lives have only known to be, 



So sunlight, very warm, 

On harvest fields and trees, 
Could not more sweetly form 
Rejoicing melodies 
For these deep things, than Isabel for me ; 
I lay beneath her soul as a lit tree. 



a poet's love. 43 

That cottage where she dwelt 
Was all o'er mosses green ; 
I still forever felt 

How nothing stands between 
The soul and truth ; why starving poverty 
Was nothing — nothing, Isabel, to thee. 



Grass beneath her faint tread 

Bent pleasantly away ; 
From her ne'er small birds fled, 
But kept at their bright play, 
Not fearing her ; it was her endless motion, 
Just a true sw T ell upon a summer ocean. 



They who conveyed her home, — 

I mean who led her where 
The spirit does not roam, — 
Had such small weight to bear, 
They scarcely felt. How softly was thy knell 
Rung for thee that soft day, girl Isabel ! 



44 a poet's love. 

I am no more below, 

My life is raised on high ; 
My fantasy was slow 
Ere Isabel could die, 
It pressed me down ; but now I sail away 
Into the regions of exceeding day. 



And Isabel and I 

Float on the red-brown clouds, 
That amply multiply 

The very constant crowds 
Of serene shapes. Play on mortality ! 
Thy happiest hour is that when thou may'st die, 



The running winds are not more fleet 
That pace along the blue sea's floor, 

Than are thy tender childhood's feet, 
O girl, the best that nature bore. 



GIFTS. 



A dropping shower of spray, 

Filled with a beam of light, — 
The breath of some soft day, — 
The groves by wan moonlight, — 
Some rivers flow, 
Some falling snow, 
Some bird's swift flight ; — 

A summer field o'erstrown 

With gay and laughing flowers, 
And shepherd's clocks half blown, 
That tell the merry hours, — 
The waving grain, 
The spring soft rain, — 
Are these things ours ? 



THE STARS 



Silent companions of the blinded earth, 
Day's recollection, enemies of time, — 
How like an angel troop with folded hopes 
Ye stand, each separate in the azure. 
Hear ! 'T is the rushing of the midnight wind, 
Falling with his resistless scimitar 
Upon the mournful memories of the wood : 
Whirling before it to the South they flee, 
In sad confusion, to the sheltering South. 
The yellow grass moans in the chilling air, 
Each living thing runs to its in-door home ; 
But ye, clear stars, look with untrembling eyes 
On the fierce blast, far in your upper sphere. 



THE STARS. 47 

Where the wild battle rages, and the streams 
Run crimson to the sea, and frightened death 
Falls shuddering at the slaughter, pressing hard 
His icy palms upon his saddened eyes, 
Your soft and dewy light floats gently o'er 
Sweet as a mother's thoughts by sleeping babe. 



In your deep light I look and see the abode 

Of greater spirits than our life sends forth 

To wander in the paths of the green earth. 

I see a wisdom which this noisy day, 

That jars our phantom forms with rude uproar, 

Shall never emulate. Unsleeping Stars ! 

Who can distrust the love that reigns the world, 

Or think, though unheard, that your sphere is dumb. 



THE LOVER'S SONG. 



Bee in the deep flower bells, 

Brook in the cavern dim, 
Fawn in the woodland dells 

Hideth him. 

I hide in thy deep flower eyes, 

In the well of thy dark cold eye ; 
In thy heart my feelings rise, 

There they lie. 

Sing love, sing, for thy song 

Filleth the life of my mind ; 
Thou bendest my woes along 

Like a wind. 



the lover's song. 49 

Green of the spring and flower, 

Fruit of the summer day, 
Midnight and moon-lit hour — 
What say they ? 

Centre of them thou art, 

Building that points on high ; 
Sun, — for it is in thy heart, 

Will not die. 



SEA SONG 



Our boat to the waves go free, 

By the bending tide, where the curled wave breaks, 
Like the track of the wind on the white snow flakes ; 

Away ! — away ! 'T is a path o'er the sea. 

Blasts may rave, — spread the sail, 

For our spirits can wrest the power from the wind, 
And the gray clouds yield to the sunny mind, 

Fear not we the whirl of the gale. 



Waves on the beach, and the wild sea-Cpam, 
With a leap, and a dash, and a sudden cheer, 
Where the sea- weed makes its bending home, 
And the sea birds swim on the crests so clear, 
Wave after wave, they are curling o'er 
W T hile the white sand dazzles along the shore. 



BOAT SONG 



The River calmly flows 
Through shining banks, through lonely glen, 
Where the owl shrieks, though ne'er the cheer of men 
Has stirred its mute repose ; 
Still if you should walk there, you would go there again. 



The stream is well alive ; 
Another passive world you see, 
Where downward grows the form of every tree, 
Like soft light clouds they thrive ; 
Like them let us in our pure loves reflected be. 



52 BOAT SONG. 

A yellow gleam is thrown 
Into the secrets of that maze 
Of tangled trees, that late shut out our gaze, 
Refusing to be known ; 
It must its privacy unclose, — its glories blaze. 



Sweet falls the summer air 
Over her form who sails with me, 
Her way like it is beautifully free, 
Her nature far more rare, 
And is her constant heart of virgin purity, 



A quivering star is seen 
Keeping its watch above the hill ; 
Though from the sun's retreat small light is still 
Poured on earth's saddening mien : 
We all are tranquilly obeying Evening's will. 



BOAT SONG. 53 

Thus ever love the Power ; 
To simplest thoughts dispose the mind ; 
In each obscure event a worship find 
Like that of this dim hour, — 
In lights, and airs, and trees, and in all human kind. 



We smoothly glide below 
The faintly glimmering worlds of light : 
Day has a charm, and this deceptive night 
Brings a mysterious show ; 
He shadows our dear earth, but his cool stars are white. 



REVERENCE. 



As an ancestral heritage revere 



All learning, and all thought. The painter's fame 

Is thine, whate'er thy lot, who honorest grace. 

And need enough in this low time, when they, 

Who seek to captivate the fleeting notes 

Of heaven's sweet beauty, must despair almost, 

So heavy and obdurate show the hearts 

Of their companions. Honor kindly then 

Those who bear up in their so generous arms 

The beautiful ideas of matchless forms ; 

For were these not portrayed, our human fate, — 

Which is to be all high, majestical, 

To grow to goodness with each coming age, 

Till virtue leap and sing for joy to see 



REVERENCE. 55 

So noble, virtuous men, — would brief decay ; 
And the green, festering slime, oblivious, haunt 
About our common fate. Oh honor them ! 

But what to all true eyes has chiefest charm, 
And what to every breast where beats a heart 
Framed to one beautiful emotion, — to 
One sw r eet and natural feeling, lends a grace 
To all the tedious walks of common life, 
This is fair woman, — woman, whose applause 
Each poet sings, — woman the beautiful. 
Not that her fairest brow, or gentlest form 
Charm us to tears ; not that the smoothest cheek, 
Where ever rosy tints have made their home, 
So rivet us on her ; but that she is 
The subtle, delicate grace, — the inward grace, 
For words too excellent ; the noble, true, 
The majesty of earth ; the summer queen : 
In whose conceptions nothing but what's great 
Has any right. And, O ! her love for him, 
Who does but his small part in honoring her ; 
Discharging a sweet office, sweeter none, 



56 REVERENCE. 

Mother and child, friend, counsel and repose ; — 

Nought matches with her, nought has leave with her 

To highest human praise. Farewell to him 

Who reverences not with an excess 

Of faith the beauteous sex ; all barren he 

Shall live a living death of mockery. 

Ah ! had but words the power, what could we say 

Of woman ! We, rude men, of violent phrase, 

Harsh action, even in repose inwardly harsh ; 

Whose lives walk blustering on high stilts, removed 

From all the purely gracious influence 

Of mother earth. To single from the host 

Of angel forms one only, and to her 

Devote our deepest heart and deepest mind 

Seems almost contradiction. Unto her 

We owe our greatest blessings, hours of cheer, 

Gay smiles, and sudden tears, and more than these 

A sure perpetual love. Regard her as 

She walks along the vast still earth ; and see ! 

Before her flies a laughing troop of joys, 

And by her side treads old experience, 



REVERENCE. 57 

With never-failing voice admonitory ; 
The gentle, though infallible, kind advice, 
The watchful care, the fine regardfulness, 
Whatever mates with what we hope to find, 
All consummate in her — the summer queen. 

To call past ages better than what now 
Man is enacting on life's crowded stage, 
Cannot improve our worth ; and for the world 
Blue is the sky as ever, and the stars 
Kindle their crystal flames at soft-fallen eve 
With the same purest lustre that the east 
Worshipped. The river gently flows through fields 
Where the broad-leaved corn spreads out, and loads 
Its ear as when the Indian tilled the soil. 
The dark green pine, — green in the winter's cold, 
Still whispers meaning emblems, as of old ; 
The cricket chirps, and the sweet, eager birds 
In the sad woods crowd their thick melodies ; 
But yet, to common eyes, life's poetry 
Something has faded, and the cause of this 
May be that man, no longer at the shrine 



58 REVERENCE. 

Of woman, kneeling with true reverence, 

In spite of field, wood, river, stars and sea 

Goes most disconsolate. A babble now, 

A huge and wind-swelled babble, fills the place 

Of that great adoration which of old 

Man had for woman. In these days no more 

Is love the pith and marrow of man's fate. 

Thou who in early years feelest awake 
To finest impulses from nature's breath, 
And in thy walk hearest such sounds of truth 
As on the common ear strike without heed, 
Beware of men around thee. Men are foul, 
With avarice, ambition and deceit ; 
The worst of all, ambition. This is life 
Spent in a feverish chase for selfish ends, 
Which has no virtue to redeem its toil 
But one long, stagnant hope to raise the self. 
The miser's life to this seems sweet and fair ; 
Better to pile the glittering coin, than seek 
To overtop our brothers and our loves. 
Merit in this ? Where lies it, though thy name 



REVERENCE. 59 

Ring over distant lands, meeting the wind 

Even on the extremest verge of the wide world. 

Merit in this ? Better be hurled abroad 

On the vast whirling tide, than in thyself 

Concentred, feed upon thy own applause. 

Thee shall the good man yield no reverence ; 

But, while the idle, dissolute crowd are loud 

In voice to send thee flattery, shall rejoice 

That he has scaped thy fatal doom, and known 

How humble faith in the good soul of things 

Provides amplest enjoyment. O my brother, 

If the Past's counsel any honour claim 

From thee, go read the history of those 

Who a like path have trod, and see a fate 

Wretched with fears, changing like leaves at noon, 

When the new wind sings in the white birch wood. 

Learn from the simple child the rule of life, 

And from the movements of the unconscious tribes 

Of animal nature, those that bend the wing 

Or cleave the azure tide, content to be, 

What the great frame provides, — freedom and grace. 

Thee, simple child, do the swift winds obey, 



60 REVERENCE. 

And the white waterfalls with their bold leaps 
Follow thy movements. Tenderly the light 
Thee watches, girding with a zone of radiance, 
And all the swinging herbs love thy soft steps. 



THE SPIDER. 



Habitant of castle gray, 
Creeping thing in sober way, 
Visible sage mechanician, 
Skilfullest arithmetician, 
Aged animal at birth, 
Wanting joy and idle mirth ; 
Clothed in famous tunic old, 
Vestments black, of many a fold, 
Spotted mightily with gold ; 
Weaving, spinning in the sun 
Since the world its course has run ; 
Creation beautiful in art, 
Of God's providence a part, — 
What if none will look at thee, 
Sighing for the humming bee, 



62 THE SPIDER. 

Or great moth with heavenly wings, 
Or the nightingale who sings ? — 
Curious spider, thou 'rt to me 
Of a mighty family. 



Tender of a myst'iG loom, 

Weaving in my silent room 

Canopy, that haply vies 

With the mortal fabric wise ; 

Everlasting procreator, 

Ne'er was such a generator. 

Adam wondered at thy skill, 

And thy persevering will, 

That continueth to spin, 

Caring not a yellow pin 

For the mortals' dire confusion ; 

Sager in profound conclusion 

Than astronomer at night, 

When he brings new worlds to light. 

Heaven has furnished thee with tools, 

Such as ne'er a heap of fools 



THE SPIDER. 63 



Have by dint of sweat and pain 
Made for use, and made in vain. 



When mild breeze is hither straying, 

Sweetest music kindly playing, 

Raising high the whispering leaves 

And the covering of the sheaves, 

Thou art rocking, airy thing, 

Like a proud exalted king ; 

Conqueror thou surely art, 

And majestical of heart. 

There are times of loneliness 

When a living thing we bless ; 

Times of miserable sin, 

Cold without, and dark within ; 

Then, old spider, haply I 

Seek thy busy factory ; 

Always finding thee at home, 

Too forecasting e'er to roam ; 

So we sit and spin together 

In the gayest, gloomiest weather. 



THE PICTURE. 



My mind obeys the power 

That through all persons breathes, 
And woods are murmuring, 
And fields begin to sing, 

And in me nature wreathes. 



Thou too art with me here, — 

The best of all design ; 
Of that strong purity 
Which makes it joy to be 
A distant thought of thine. 



A SONG OF SPRING. 



Leaves on the trees, 

And buds in the breeze, 
And tall grass waving on the meadows' side, 

And a showerlet sweet, 

While the soft clouds meet 
Again in their golden robes when day has died. 

The scholar his pen 

Hath mended again, 
For the new life runs in his wearied veins ; 

While the wild child flies 

Mid the flowers' fresh dyes, 
And the happy bird gushes with sudden strains. 
5 



WINTER SONG. 

Cold blows the blast, 

And the snow falls fast 
On meadow and moor, and the deep blue lake ; 

And the wind it is keen 

In the snow-white sheen, 
As the glances which the Envies make. 

Merrily by the hearthstone we 
Sit with a song of social glee, 

While the blaze of the red fire glows, 

Painting the sides of the rafters old, 

Till they shine in the roof like melted gold. 

Right under the piled up, chilling snows. 



WINTER SONG. 67 

Now the brooks are bound, 

And make no sound, 
Still as a corpse in its coffin drear ; 

While the icicles shine 

As stately and fine 
As the lamps of the church o'er the death-cold bier. 

But it troubleth not us, 

There are joys for us, 
And thine eye is as warm as in summer time ; 

Thy kiss is as sweet, 

And thy loving arms meet 
As were ringing abroad the soft winds' chime. 



HOME. 



'Tis far away, dear friend, 't is far away 
Where we were born and nurtured, and grew up. 
Thither to-day, as this new gate of time 
Swings on its noiseless hinges slowly back, 
Through the far vista of our boyish years, 
Look with a saddened eye, ay ! once more look, 
Ere through these portals we pass idly on, 
To see the coming painted on the wall. 

I see a grand procession of fine hopes, 
Each with his face wrapped in a sable stole, 
And turned away from me their once bright eyes, 
All mutely gazing on the snowy ground. 



HOME. 69 

Then one, — still farther down, — this mournful troop 

They carry on a bier hung round with frost. 

The light is like a dying person's eye ; 

For O ! our passed years shall make us weep, 

Nor shall our boyish years live but in dreams. 

They say our home is in a better land ; 

That we are pilgrims here, and on this march 

We shall stop never, but with soiled feet 

Track the hard pavement with our dusty prints. 

But yet to journey homeward were most fair, 

And, no one knowing, burst upon their sight ; — 

Thou art come ! — Indeed is 't thou, from the far land ? — 

That joy was in their hearts. And as the lake's 

Calm surface is at once waked into life 

By one slight move, so should my sudden sight 

Arouse their peaceful feelings. So will 't be 

When some pure man makes of this world a home, 

All home, — both on new-years and birth-days home, 

And all the people laugh within their hearts, 

That this is city of God, both then and now. 



ON RECEIVING SOME DRAWINGS. 

Sweet are these drawings, and though wanting that 
Great finish and pretence, which modern art 
Dresses its being in, to me they are 
A finer exposition of the mind 
From which they issued, than more labored skill, 
These first faint streaks of that consuming light 
Which thou shalt shed on art, and all fair things. 
For thou wert made for beauty, dwelPst in it. 
No other home is thine, than where the world 
Winds her green tresses o'er the golden bank, 
Under whose edge the wild brook leaps along, 
Like a mad courser running to the sea. 



ON RECEIVING SOME DRAWINGS. 71 

Thee shall the azure fill with countless hopes, 

And the soft wind of Summer in thy ear 

Speak with a voice of pleasure. But thy way 

Not thus for ever. There shall be a day 

When perchance sorrow, with her icy smile 

Shall visit thee. Then shall thy wondrous art, 

With most consoling influence, beckon thee 

To sweet thoughts ; — then thy pencil guide the way 

Into a region of keen memories ; 

And many a form spring into graceful life, 

Airy and light, dispellers of thy gloom. 

Ah glorious fancy, who with shaping skill 

Hast visited us here, else how obscure, 

And with thy splendid charms and graceful mien 

Re-clothed the sere and tearful, drooping world, 

So that now going onward to the tomb, 

Alone and halt, beggars in love and joy, 

We from thy presence catch a glance of heaven, 

And on the face of nature read the life 

Which we did wish to live, as though 't were so. 



OUR BIRTH DAYS. 



These are the solemnest days of our bright lives, 
When memory and hope within exert 
Delightful reign ; when sympathy revives, 
And that which late was in the soul inert 
Grows warm and living ; and to us, alone 
Are these a knowledge, nowise may they hurt, 
Or cry aloud, or frighten out the tone 
Which we will strive to wear, and as calm nature own. 

Whatever scenes our eyes once gratified, 
Those landscapes couched around our early homes, 
To which our tender, peaceful hearts replied, 
To those our present happy feeling roams ; 



OUR BIRTH DAYS. 73 

And takes a mightier joy than from the tomes 
Of the pure scholar ; those ten thousand sights 
Of constant nature flow in us, as foams 
The bubbling spring ; these are the true delights 
Wherewith this solemn world the sorrowful requites. 



WRITTEN IN THE EVENING OF A 
NOVEMBER DAY. 



Thee, mild autumnal day, 
I felt, not for myself ; the winds may steal 
From any point, and seem to me alike 

Reviving, soothing powers. 

Like thee the contrast is 
Of a new mood in a decaying man, 
Whose idle mind is suddenly revived 

With many pleasant thoughts. 

Our earth was gratified ; 
Fresh grass, a stranger in this frosty clime, 
Peeped from the crumbling mould, as welcome as 

An unexpected friend. 



WRITTEN IN THE EVENING OF A NOVEMBER DAY. 75 

How glowed the evening star, 
As it delights to glow in summer's midst, 
When out of ruddy boughs the twilight birds 

Sing flowing harmony. 

Peace was the will to-day ; 
Love in bewildering growth our joyous minds 
Swelled to their widest bounds ; the worldly left 

All hearts to sympathize. 

I felt for thee, — for thee, 
Whose inward, outward life completely moves, 
Surrendered to the beauty of the soul 

Of this creative day. 



INSCRIPTION FOR A GARDEN. 



The spirit builds his house in the least flowers, — 

A beautiful mansion ; how the colors live, 

Intricately delicate. Every night 

An angel, for this purpose, from the heavens 

With his small urn of ivory-like hue drops 

A globular world of the purest element 

In the flower's midst, feeding its tender soul 

With lively inspiration. Wonder 't is 

That man will still want knowledge ; is not here, 

Spread in amazing wealth, a form too rare, 

A soul so inward, that with open heart 

Tremulous and tender, we must ever fear 

Not to see near enough, of these deep things ? 



THE LOVER'S FEAR. 



There is a grace upon the waving trees, 

A beauty in the wide and heaving sea, 
A glory is there in the rushing breeze, 

Yet what are all these fairy things to me ? 

What by the side of such an one as thee ? 
They weigh as dust against the purest gold ; 

And all the words of fine society 
And all the famous thoughts great men have told, 
By side of thee seem dull, — dull, heavy and most cold, 

If thou art lost to me, farewell my heart ! 

There is one jewel for thy prizing here, 
But how companionless and chilled thou art, 

If this great lustre, unto thee so dear 

Fall, like an autumn leaf, withered and sere, 
And leave thee on the shore of time, alone ; 

So shall this living earth be thy true bier, 
Its every sound a wretched, mournful tone, 
And all thy passions' tears turned into hardest stone. 



TO CLIO 



Planets bear thee in their hands, 
Azure skies have folded o'er thee, 

Thou art sung by angel bands, 

And the deep, cold, throbbing sea ; 

Whispered in each sighing tree, 

In each meadow's melody. 

Where the sprites outwatch the moon, 
And the ghostly night breeze swells, 

And the brook prolongs a tune 

Through the shimmering, shadowed dells ; 

There thou weavest unknown spells 

To the ringing fairy bells. 



TO CLIO. 79 



In thy folded trance there hide 
Ceaseless measures of content, 

And thou art of form the bride, 
Shapely picture's element. 



THE BENIGHTED TRAVELLER. 



He journeys on, slow moving o'er the moor. 

The treacherous dark has razed his homeward path, 

And like a spirit from the heavens sent, 

Dances before him his old kitchen hearth, 

His children round, and antique serving maid. 

The pale stars glimmer through a flickering mist, 

While chill the night-breeze creeps about his heart. 

His unfamiliar step crushes the herb 

That withered long ago, untouched before. 

He stumbles o'er rude stones, and climbs the hill, 

To see the waning moon with pity look 

On marshes spread beneath, and endless glades 

Where never fell his eye until this hour. 



THE RIVER 



There is an inward voice, that in the stream 
Sends forth its spirit to the listening ear, 
And in a calm content it floweth on, 
Like wisdom, welcome with its own respect. 
Clear in its breast lie all these beauteous thoughts. 
It doth receive the green and graceful trees, 
And the gray rocks smile in its peaceful arms, 
And over all floats a serenest blue, 
Which the mild heaven sheds dosvn on it like rain. 
O fair, sweet stream, thy undisturbed repose 
Me beckons to thy front, and thou vexed world, 
Thou other turbulent sphere where I have dwelt, 
Diminished into distance touch'st no more 

6 



82 THE RIVER. 

My feelings here, than does the swaying soft, 
(Made by the delicate wave parted in front, 
As through the gentle element we move 
Like shadows gliding through untroubled realms,) 
Disturb these lily circles, these white bells. 
And yet on thee shall wind come fiercely down, 
Hail pelt thee with dull words, ice bind thee up ; 
And yet again when the fierce rage is o'er, 
O smiling river, shalt thou smile once more, 
And, as it were, even in thy depths revere 
The sage security thy nature wears. 



THE POOR MAN. 



Like a lion at bay, 
Like a cold still day, 

Stands the poor man here, 
Few friends has he, 
And fewer they be 

With the turn of each year ; 



Who can buy him no house, 
Who cannot carouse, 

Nor his neighbors delight ; 
Whose cabin is cold, 
Whose vestment is old, 

Whose heart only shine th bright. 



84 THE POOR MAN. 

They eye him askance 
With a feeble glance, 

Half shake him by the hand, — 
5 T is the poor man, he 
Hath no gold to give to me ; 

There are richer in the land. — 



But the sun shineth fair 
Through the blue-woven air, 

To the poor man's mind ; 
His ears are all ready, 
And his hearing is steady, 

As rushes the wind. 



The seed he puts in earth, 
Of its fruit hath the birth ; 

Tall waves the fragrant flower ; 
He hath carved a broad stone 
That the time may be known ; 

The dial telleth him the hour. 



THE POOR MAN. 

The birds over his head 
Their broad wings spread, 

Their songs to him they sing ; 
The brook runs him to meet, 
And washeth gently his feet, 

While the meadows their joys bring. 



85 



STILLWATER. 



Thou lazy river flowing neither way 

Me figurest, and yet thy banks seem gay. 

I flow between the shores of this large life, 

My banks are fair as thine, with joy as rife ; 

Thy tides will swell when the next moon comes round, 

But mine far higher in their rise be found. 



FAREWELL. 



The time is told when we must part 
For this present, and for long ; 

Yet I hear thee in my heart 

Sing sweet strains of childhood's song. 

What I might have proved to thee, 

Must the azure future say ; 
And my brightest memory 

Paint with gold thy distant way. 



MOONLIGHT. 



He came and waved a little silver wand, 
He dropped the veil that hid a statue fair, 
He drew a circle with that pearly hand, 
His grace confined that beauty in the air ; — 
Those limbs so gentle, now at rest from flight, 
Those quiet eyes now musing on the night. 



TO ANNA. 



Thou golden figure of the shaded sun, 

Thou stately streamlet singing on thy way, 

Thou harp, that beauty plays its notes upon, 
Thou silver image of departing day ! 



Thou summer charm, how shall the winter glow, 
That thou serenely shinest through the air, 

Clothing with rosy tints the once pale snow, 
Until the frosts rich crimson flowers upbear ! 



THE SIBYL TO HER LOVER. 



Roam, — the wide world before thee, 
O'er mount, o'er vale, o'er stream, o'er sea, 
Roam, — outspread before the gale, 
Even if it rend thy swelling sail. 
Beware of the sunny isles ! 
Trust not their rosy smiles. 



I, — what am I to thee ? 
A speck on thy life's morning sea, — 
Soon shalt thou forget me, 
Thou honey-gathering bee ; 
With thy laden freight shalt pass 
Over all the earth to day, 
Sweeping, as the bending grass 
Lives beneath the wild air's play. 



THE SIBYL TO HER LOVER. 91 

Set thy canvass to the wind, 
Thy rudder man for ocean war, 
And cleaving, leave the land behind, 
Thy rushing course pursuing far. 
Beware of the sunny isles ! 
Trust not their rosy smiles. 



Look not on beauty for thy mate, 
Nor sparkling wine, nor fantasy ; 
But drink the perfect desolate 
Of some wild, lofty misery. 
Beware of the sunny isles ! 
Trust not their rosy smiles. 



Thy goblet will not hold a draught. 
What lips can drain from half a rim ? 
Nor canst thou mould it whole by craft, 
Though fused its ore in starlight dim. 
Away ! Thou sail'st the misty sea, 
A nerved hand, and sparkling free. 



92 THE SIBYL TO HER LOVER. 

Away ! away ! delay no more, 

I see thy cavern's thunder cloud ; 

Put off ! put off ! and hate the shore, 

Before thy life with storm is bowed. 

Beware the sounds of single-hearted time, 

For they will chill thee like the hoar frost's rime 



Weave but one circlet for thy hair, 
Twine but one chaplet for thy brow ; 
A wreath of floating, azure air, 
And into it the sunlight throw, 
Let gold hide 'neath the twisted braid 
Heart's blood, as it is sometimes said. 



Thy robe shall stream like crimson bars, 

That fleck the sunset banner wide, 

And float above thy ruby wars, 

As it in gore were richly dyed. 

And warm and sweet thy life shall be 

Across the fathoms of the sea. 



THE SIBYL TO HER LOVER. 93 

Wait but the hour, — thy course is run ; 
Life's carpentry will build no more ; 
Thou shalt sit silenced in the dun, 
Perpetual tempests' sluggish roar ; 
Those velvet tresses soft and free, 
Slimed and disfigured then shall be. 



Bide not thy time, heed not thy fate, 
Believe no truth, respect no law, 
Fling to the winds foul custom's state, 
And play with every antique saw ; 
For in thee hides a matchless light, 
That splendors all the dreaming night. 



Thy bark shall be a precious stone, 
In whose red veins deep magic hides ; 
Thy ecstasies be known to none, 
Except those vast perpetual tides 
Which circulate the world's wide round, 
But whisper not the lightest sound. 



94 THE SIBYL TO HER LOVER. 

Away ! away ! thou starlit breath, 
On bended knees I pray thee, go ! 
O bind thy temples not with death, 
Nor let thy shadow fall on snow. 
Beware of the sunny isles ! 
Trust not their rosy smiles. 



See how the morning gilds the main, 
See how the sun sets splendidly, 
And mark thy graceful vessel's gain 
When thou art flashing through the sea, 
While crested cliffs hiss madly near, 
Or the long reach sheds seaweeds' tear. 



No sunken rock shall shatter thee, 
No blasting wind thy bark pursue, 
But thou shalt sail as comes to me 
The forest's anthem, just and true ; 
Spread thy green canvass to the breeze, 
Thy bows surrender to the seas. 



THE SIBYL TO HER LOVER. 95 

Thy music shall the sunset star 
Tune spherally in liquid light, 
Thy jewelled couch the south inbar 
Within the curtains of the night, 
And fold thee in those clustering arms, 
To sing thee deep in dreamiest charms. 



A POET'S HOPE, 



Flying, — flying beyond all lower regions, 
Beyond the light called day, and night's repose, 
Where the untrammelled soul, on her wind-pinions 
Fearlessly sweeping, defies my earthly woes ; — 
There, — there, upon that infinitest sea, 
Lady, thy hope, — so fair a hope, summons me. 



Fall off, ye garments of my misty weather, 

Drop from my eyes, ye scales of time's applying ; 

Am I not godlike ? meet not here together 

A past and future infinite, defying, 

The cold, still, callous moment of to-day ? 

Am I not master of the calm alway ? 



a poet's hope. 97 

Would I could summon from the deep, deep mine, 
Glutted with shapely jewels, glittering bright, 
One echo of that splendor, call it thine, 
And weave it in the strands of living light ; 
For it is in me, and the sea smiles fair, 
And thitherward I rage, on whirling air. 



Unloose me, demons of dull care and want, 
I will not stand your slave, I am your king ; 
Think not within your meshes vile I pant 
For the wild liberty of an unclipt wing ; 
My empire is myself, and I defy 
The external ; yes ! I rule the whole, or die, 



All music that the fullest breeze can play 
In its melodious whisperings in the wood, 
All modulations which entrance the day 
And deify a sunlight solitude ; 
All anthems that the waves sing to the ocean 
Are mine for song, and yield to my devotion, 
7 



98 a poet's hope. 

And mine the soft glaze of a loving eye, 
And mine the pure shapes of the human form, 
And mine the bitterest sorrow's witchery, 
And spells enough to make a snow-king warm ; 
For an undying hope thou breathe st me, — 
Hope which can ride the tossing, foaming sea. 



Lady, there is a hope that all men have, 
Some mercy for their faults, a grassy place 
To rest in, and a flower-strown, gentle grave ; 
Another hope which purifies our race, 
That when that fearful bourne forever past, 
They may find rest, — and rest so long to last. 



I seek it not, I ask no rest for ever, 

My path is onward to the farthest shores, — 

Upbear me in your arms, unceasing river, 

That from the soul's clear fountain swiftly pours, 

Motionless not, until the end is won, 

Which now I feel hath scarcely felt the sun. 



a poet's hope. 99 

To feel, to know, to soar unlimited, 

Mid throngs of light-winged angels sweeping far, 

And pore upon the realms unvisited, 

That tesselate the unseen unthought star, 

To be the thing that now I feebly dream 

Flashing within my faintest, deepest gleam. 



Ah ! caverns of my soul ! how thick your shade, 
Where flows that life by which I faintly see, — 
Wave your bright torches, for I need your aid, 
Golden-eyed demons of my ancestry ! 
Your son though blinded hath a light within, 
A heavenly fire which ye from suns did win. 



And, lady, in thy hope my life will rise 
Like the air-voyager, till I upbear 
These heavy curtains of my filmy eyes, 
Into a lighter, more celestial air ; 
A mortal's hope shall bear me safely on, 
Till I the higher region shall have won. 



100 a poet's -hope. 

O Time ! O death ! I clasp you in my arms, 

For I can soothe an infinite cold sorrow, 

And gaze contented on your icy charms, 

And that wild snow-pile, which we call to-morrow 

Sweep on, O soft, and azure-lidded sky, 

Earth's waters to your gentle gaze reply. 



I am not earth-born, though I here delay ; 
Hope's child, I summon infiniter powers, 
And laugh to see the mild and sunny day 
Smile on the shrunk and thin autumnal hours ; 
I laugh, for hope hath happy place with me. 
If my bark sinks, 't is to another sea. 



THE TEMPLE. 



" Seest thou yon azure dome 

Where the thoughtful stars have home, 

This floor of earth, those pillars tall, 

The green wreathed mountain's steadfast wall ?" 



A moody man, he stands apart, 
Nor listens to the pleasing charm, 
And yet he has a human heart, 
A heart with human feelings warm. 



OCTOBER 



Dry leaves with yellow ferns, they are 
Fit wreath of Autumn, while a star 
Still, bright, and pure, our frosty air 

Shivers in twinkling points 

Of thin, celestial hair, 
And thus one side of heaven anoints. 



I am beneath the moon's calm look, 
Most quiet in this sheltered nook, 
From trouble of the frosty wind 

That curls the yellow blade ; 

Though in my covered mind 
A grateful sense of change is made. 



OCTOBER. 103 

To wandering men how dear this sight, 
Of a cold, tranquil autumn night, 

In its majestic, deep repose. 

Thus shall their genius be, 

Not buried in high snows, 
Though of as mute tranquillity. 



An anxious life they will not pass, 
Nor, as the shadow on the grass, 
Leave no impression there to stay ; 

To them all things are thought ; 

The blushing morn's decay, 
Our death, our life, by this is taught. 

O find in every haze that shines 
A brief appearance without lines, 
A single word, — no finite joy ; 
For present is a Power 
Which we may not annoy, 
Yet love him stronger every hour. 



104 OCTOBER. 

I would not put this sense from me, 
If I could some great sovereign be ; 
Yet will not task a fellow man 

To feel the same glad sense ; 

For no one living can 
Feel, save his given influence. 



THE POOR. 

I do not mourn my friends are false, 
I dare not grieve for sins of mine, 

I weep for those who pine to death, 
Great God ! in this rich world of thine. 



So many trees there are to see, 

And fields go waving broad with grain, 

And yet, — what utter misery ! — 
Our very brothers lie in pain. 



106 THE POOR. 

These by their darkened hearth-stones sit, 
Their children shivering idly round, 

As true as liveth God, 't were fit 

For these poor men to curse the ground. 



And those who daily bread have none, 
Half starved the long, long winter's day, 

Fond parents gazing on their young, 
Too wholly sad one word to say. 



To them it seems, their God has cursed 
This race of ours since they were born ; 

Willing to toil, and yet deprived 
Of common wood, or store of corn. 



I do not weep for my own woes, 
They are as nothing in my eye ; 

I weep for them who, starved and froze, 
Do curse their God, and long to die. 



FADING AWAY. 



Sunny day ! 

Sunny day ! 
Why are shorn thy golden beams ? 
Mortal, tell me, are thy dreams 

Fading away ? 

Summer flowers ! 

Summer flowers ! 
Fall your leaves forever lost ? 
Mortal, has no sudden frost 

Crisped thine hours ? 

Shrine of clay ! 

Shrine of clay ! 
Shall thy fine pulsations cease ? 
Mortal, 't is a blest release, 

Fading away. 



FOR A WOOD SCENE IN WINTER. 



Around this spot the trees have fallen, — the path 

Leads its rude way o'er the decaying trunks 

Of prostrate pines. Above, against the sky, 

A massy wall of splintered rock soars up, 

Once gay with those green plants that smile in shade, 

The broad-leaved ferns. How still it is, — how lone. 

You seem to hear the silence whispering — hush ! 

But in the spring I heard, as here I stood, 

A loud and hissing stream, and in the fall 

The wind plies its wild fingers, and plucks off 

The sere and crimson foliage of the ash. 



FOR A WOOD SCENE IN WINTER. 109 

Life's winter, like the silent season, mute, 
Crowned by a wreath of snow as white as this, 
That hangs so loosely on the leafless trees, 
Like this calm place still brightens in the sun ; 
And winter should be dear to man, as he 
In his most venerable aspect, this 
Does imitate. 



UNA. 

We are centred deeper far 
Than the eye of any star, 
Nor can rays of long sunlight 
Thread a pace of our delight. 
In thy form I see the day 
Burning, of a kingdom higher, 
In thy silver net- work play 
Thoughts that to the Gods aspire ; 
In thy cheek I see the flame 
Of the studious taper burn, 
And thy Grecian eye might tame 
Nature's ashed in antique urn ; 



UNA. Ill 

Yet with this lofty clement 

Flows a pure stream of gentle kindness, 

And thou to life thy strength hast lent, 

And borne profoundest tenderness 

In thy Promethean fearless arm, 

With mercy's love that would all angels charm. 



So trembling meek, so proudly strong, 

Thou dost to higher worlds belong, 

Than where I sing this empty song : 

Yet I, a thing of mortal kind, 

Can kneel before thy pathless mind, 

And see in thee what my mates say 

Sank o'er Judea's hills one crimson day. 

Yet flames on high the keen Greek fire, 

And later ages rarefies, 

And even on my tuneless lyre 

A faint, wan beam of radiance dies. 



112 UNA. 

And might I say what I have thought 
Of thee, and those I love to-day, 
Then had the world an echo caught 
Of that intense, impassioned lay, 
Which sung in those thy being sings, 
And from the deepest ages rings. 



PA ST. 

I would I were at home again, 
My days are running fast away, 

And bring me nothing true but pain, 
Though I may look so glad and gay. 



My friend, this world is more to thee, 
Than to thy old companion here, 

For I must always turn and flee, 
While thou advancest without fear. 



The blue skies greet me without joy, 
The earth is fearful, cold and dull, 

I wish I were once more a boy, 
It then all seemed so beautiful. 

8 



114 PAST. 

I cling to what I loved before, 
I joy in what I used to do, — 

I cannot learn to love you more, 
But ! I long to fly to you. 



Yes ! I shall come and be a child 

Where I was childish, and grow glad 

To hear your gentle voice so mild, 
And play again where I was sad. 



For I was sad in days past by, 

But now am sad that they are past, 

And all my joys in memory, 

Are perfectly and finely glassed. 



THE FRIENDS. 



Our village churchyard, — would I could relate 

To you all that I think of it, its trees, 

Its trailing grass, the hanging stones, that say, 

This watch o'er human bones fatigues not us ; 

My boyhood's fear unsatisfied, for then 

I thought a wandering wind some ghostly father, 

While the sweet rustle of the locust leaves 

Shot a thin crystal web of icy dread 

O'er the swift current of my wild heart's blood. 

One night the pastor's form among the tombs 

Chased the big drops across my unseamed brow. 

You smile, — believe me, lesser things than these 

Can win a boy's emotions. 



116 THE FRIENDS. 

These graves, — you mean ; 
Their history who knows better than I ? 
For in the busy street strikes on my ear 
Each sound, even inaudible voices 
Lengthen the long tale my memory tells. 
Now mark how reads the epitaph, — " Here lie 
Two, who in life were parted, now together." 
I should remember this brief record well. 
And yet these two, their lives were much the same 
With all who crowd the narrow bridge of life ; 
I see but little difference, truly ; 
The greatest yet, is he who still lives on. 
Alas ! the day seemed big with mighty pains 
That laid the first of these within this tomb. 
There was within the air a murmuring sound, 
For all the summer's life was fluttering o'er, 
While the clear autumn conquered, and was glad. 
I bore a part of the coffin, and my feet 
Scattered the shrouds of the green foliage ; 
Yellow the flowers nature spread o'er the bier. 
You read no names upon this monument ; 
I could not have them graved ; why should we name 



THE FRIENDS. 117 

So patiently our friends ; enough we know them. 
Esther her name, and who so gay as she. 
Twelve years had gently smoothed the sunny hair 
That showered its golden mists adown her neck, 
Twelve years, — twelve little years laughed in those 

eyes 
Where, when her mother spoke, the bright drops stood ; 
So glistened in the spring depths of her love 
That parent's image. Joyous was her face, 
But yet, below its joy, a larger import ; 
Even now I see her smile, deep within deep, 
And never thoughtless. What a spirited grace 
Danced in each bold emotion of her heart 
Unshadowed by a fear. 

And who the next ? — 
She came to this still tomb one summer's day ; 
New flowers were bursting from their unsunned bells 
Spring's choristers now fully grown sang loud, 
Sweet was the wind, the sky above as blue 
As that pure woman's eye we buried then. 
Some thirty years had she the footway trod, 



118 THE FRIENDS. 

Yet frail and delicate she wandered on, 
A violet amid the rude world's briars, 
Till dropped an icicle within the flower, 
That tenderness could not essay to melt. 
Her name, and it was Esther ; — 
This likeness you will trace between the two, 
The mother of the young yet sleeping fawn 
Was gathered to her side. 

My hairs are gray, 
Yet those we buried then stood near to me. 
Their forms enchant these lonelier, elder years, 
And add due sacredness to human life. 
That I was father to so fair a child, 
And that her mother smiled on me so long, 
I think of now as passing gods' estate ; 
I am enraptured that such lot was mine, 
That mine is others. Sleep on, unspotted ones, 
Ye are immortal now ; your mirthsome hours 
Beat in my shrunken pulse, and in mine ears 
Sounds the rich music of your heavenly songs. 



CONTENT. 



Within the unpainted cottage dwell 
The spirits of serene content, 

As clear as from its moss-grown well 
Rises the crystal element. 

Above, the elm, whose trunk is scarred 
With many a dint of stormy weather, 

Rises, a sumptuous screen, debarred 
Of nothing that links life together. 

Our common life may gratify 
More feelings than the rarest art, 

For nothing can aspire so high 
As beatings of the human heart. 



120 CONTENT. 

! value then thy daily cheer, 
Poor pensioner on nature's store, 

And clasp the least, and hold most dear 
What seemeth small, and add the more, 



WRITTEN AMONG THE LENOX HILLS. 



Dear friend, in this fair atmosphere again, 
Far from the noisy echoes of the main, 
Amid the world-old mountains, and the hills 
From whose strange grouping a fine power distils 
The soothing and the calm, I seek repose, 
The city's noise forgot, and hard, stern woes. 
As thou once said'st, the rarest sons of earth 
Have in the dust of cities shown their worth, 
Where long collision with the human curse 
Has of great glory been the frequent nurse, 
And only those who in sad cities dwell, 
Are of the green trees fully sensible. 
To them the silver bells of tinkling streams 
Seem brighter than an angePs laugh in dreams, 



122 WRITTEN AMONG THE LENOX HILLS. 

A clear and airy vision of the sky, 

The future's seed, companions when we die. 

The dawn, full noon, evening, and solemn night 

Weave all around their robes of changing light, 

And in the mighty forests, day's whole time 

Is shadowed with a portraiture sublime ; 

In the dark caves dwells midnight in her stole, 

While shady Even haunts a tranquil knoll. 



SONG 



My sweet girl is lying still 
In her lovely atmosphere, 

The gentle hopes her blue veins fill 
With pure silver, warm and clear. 



O, see her hair, O, mark her breast, 
Would it not, O ! comfort thee, 

If thou could'st nightly go to rest 
By that virgin chastity. 



TO BESSIE 



Be the blue skies thy fitting garniture, 

And the green woods be organs to thine ear, 

And all that is most sweet and fine and pure 
Attend upon thee while thou dwellest here ; 



The stars upon thee shine their bright rays, clear 
As are the fancies of thy generous brain, 

All things be gentle to thee, and no fear 

Clothed in a darkened guise, in thy sw T eet heart 
appear ! 



THE SEA 



Sound on, thou anthem of the breathless soul, 
Unneeding heat, unfathomed and alone, 

Thy waves in measured phalanx firmly roll, 
And toss the furious wind in steadfast tone. 

Sweet smiles the day-god on thy green expanse, 
And purples thee with his sad, fading eve, 

Yet all the livelong night thy waters dance, 
While mariners the favoring harbors leave. 

Thy sunken rocks are nigh th' inconstant shore, 
There thou hast tribute from the fisher's boat, 

Afar, thou art the play of him no more, 

But mighty ships on thy high mountains float. 



AUTUMN'S APPROACH. 

Summer is going, 

Cold wind is blowing, 
Tale of the autumn — the autumn so drear, 

No sower is sowing, 

No mower is mowing, 
Seed is sown, harvest mown, time almost sere, 



Flowers are fading, 
Autumn's wreath braiding, 

To deck the sad burial — sad burial lone, 
The bees have done lading 
And finished their trading, 

Honey made, cellars laid, hive almost grown. 



autumn's approach. 127 

Gray clouds are flying, 

Gray shades replying, 
Soon shall come mourning — mourning so pale, 

And the babe shall be crying, 

And the mother be sighing, 
Coldly lie, coldly die, in the arms of the gale. 



THE ISLAND 



I. 

THE POINT. 

The gray wind flies with speed along, 
Yet stand the clouds nor hurry by, - 

Alas ! 't is but a voice of song, 

To which they send no quick reply. 



The sea sleeps on, — its waves' repose 
Defies the pathos of the gale, 

So in our hearts, the long years' woes 
Ride silent with a furled sail. 



THE POINT. 129 

Life's wind speeds on, but we are bound 

By memory to our quiet state, 
And sleep in solitude profound, 

Within the caverns of our fate. 



With patient arms enfolded, mute, 
We watch the clouds' unmoving day, 

And mourn above our stringless lute, 
Which still refuses us to play. 



Yet many a bark drives gaily by, 

And cuts the white crest's curling foam, 

While over it, the azure sky 

Shines like a dear, domestic home. 



Our anchored boat among the flowers, 
Is tufted with their yellow crests, 

In which a merry troop of hours 

Build with sweet song their circling nests. 
9 



130 THE ISLAND. 

Yet not our song, nor home, nor mate ; 

We smile upon them half resigned, 
And view them not made desolate, 

By our dim days and sad gray wind. 



II. 

THE LITTLE BAY. 

Thy waves are still this gentle day, 
They sweep no more with angry voice, 

The wind lies sleeping far away, 
And bids thee in repose, rejoice. 



I love to skim thy peaceful breast, 
My little skiff so gently tossed, 

For here I feel perpetual rest, 

Where never wind my path has crossed, 



I sweetly feel within thy arms, 

Such peaceful life will dwell with me, 



THE LITTLE ISLANDS. 131 

Day shed a rain of shining charms, 

And night glow golden passed with thee. 



O little bay ! — O little bay ! 

Why need I shun thy tranquil tide ? 
Why need I weep the gusty day, 

When I at sea shall fiercely ride ? 



Alas ! my little skifT drifts down 
Thy peaceful current, but to be 

The victim of the ocean's frown, 
The plaything of the misty sea. 



III. 

THE LITTLE ISLANDS. 

With what a dauntless, unconfined air 
They eye askant this other island scene, 

Now when the whole expanse is smiling fair, 
And with what bold and satisfied demean 



132 THE ISLAND. 

They gaze for ever at the rolling sea, 
Their glance interpreted! my destiny. 



So I, an island in the cold world's tide, 
Boldly stand looking at to-morrow's rise, 

To-day I feel no fear what comes beside, 

Nor shade with trembling hand my weakened 
eyes, 

Yet yonder ocean rolls with fearful might, 
And has its clouds and unexpected night. 



My good right hand is all I have for aid, 

My soul's own armor makes my whole defence, 

Yet not a power I supplicate, afraid ; 

They shine content, but very far from hence ; 

Nor any man can be my constant law, 

With all mankind I wage a secret war. 



THE BRIDGES. 133 



IV. 

THE BRIDGES. 

Lo ! how hastes the coming tide, 
Plying with main strength its task, 

Tossing weeds and shells aside, 
No assistance does it ask. 



So may we our lives control, 
Cast aside what we desire, 

Feeling that the sweeping soul 
Has than earthly path, a higher. 



Life has bridged our destiny, 

Walled our woes within its breast, 

Runs through us a troubled sea, 
Which perceiveth here no rest. 



134 THE ISLAND. 

Death shall sweep the works away, 
Set our current flowing free, 

Leave us no more yesterday, 
And be the thing we feebly see. 



Then by the bridge I dauntless swear 
I will rise higher than before, 

My head shall breathe a freer air 
Than any scattered on this shore. 



DEATH. 

Beneath the endless surges of the deep, 
Whose green content o'erlaps them ever-more, 
A host of mariners perpetual sleep, 
Too hushed to heed the wild commotion's roar ; 
The emerald weeds glide softly o'er their bones, 
And wash them gently 'mid the rounded stones. 
No epitaph have they to tell their tale, 
Their birth-place, age, and story all are lost, 
Yet rest they deeply, as within the vale 
Those sheltered bodies by the smooth slates crest ; 
And countless tribes of men lie on the hills, 
And human blood runs in the crystal rills. 



136 DEATH. 

The air is full of men, who once enjoyed 
The healthy element, nor looked beyond ; 
Many, who all their mortal strength employed 
In human kindness, of their brothers fond, 
And many more who counteracted fate 
And battled in the strife of common hate. 
Profoundest sleep enwraps them all around, 
Sages and sire, the child, and manhood strong; 
Shed not one tear ; expend no sorrowing sound, 
Tune thy clear voice to no funereal song ; 
For O death stands to welcome thee sure, 
And life hath in its breath a steeper mystery. 



I hear a bell that tolls an empty note, 

The mourning anthem, and the sobbing prayer ; 

A grave fresh-opened, where the friends devote 

To mouldering darkness a still corpse, once fair 

And beautiful as morning's silver light, 

And stars which throw their clear fire on the night ; 



DEATH. 137 

She is not here who smiled within these eyes 
Warmer than spring's first sunbeam through the pale 
And tearful air, — resist these flatteries ; — 
O lay her silently alone, and in this vale 
Shall the sweet winds sing better dirge for her, 
And the fine early flowers her death-clothes minister. 



O Death ! thou art the palace of our hopes, 
The storehouse cf our joys, great labor's end, 
Thou art the bronzed key which swiftly opes 
The coffers of the past ; and thou shalt send 
Such trophies to our hearts, as sunny days 
When life upon its golden harpstring plays. 
And when a nation mourns a silent voice, 
That long entranced its ear with melody, 
How must thou in thy inmost soul rejoice, 
To wrap such treasure in thy boundless sea ; 
And thou wert dimified if but one soul 
Had been enfolded in thy twilight stole. 



138 DEATH. 

Triumphal arches circle o'er thy deep, 

Dazzling with jewels, radiant with content ; 

In thy vast arms the sons of genius sleep, 

The carvings of thy spheral monument, 

Bearing no recollection of dim time, 

Within thy green, and most perennial prime. 

And might I sound a thought of thy decree, 

How lapsed the dreary earth in fragrant pleasure, 

And hummed along o'er life's contracted sea 

Like the swift petrel, mimicking the wave's measure ; 

But though I long, the sounds will never come, 

For in thy majesty my lesser voice is dumb. 



Thou art not anxious of thy precious fame, 
But comest like the clouds soft stealing on ; 
Thou soundest in a careless key the name 
Of him, who to thy boundless treasury is won ; 
And yet he quickly cometh ; for to die 
Is ever gentlest to both low and high. 



DEATH. 139 

Thou therefore hast humanity's respect ; 

They build thee tombs upon the green hill side, 

And will not suffer thee the least neglect, 

And tend thee with a desolate sad pride ; 

For thou art strong O death ! though sweetly so, 

And in thy lovely gentleness sleeps woe. 



what are we, who swim upon this tide 
Which we call life, yet to thy kingdom come ? 
Look not upon us till we chasten pride, 

And preparation make for thy high home ; 
And, might we ask, make measurely approach, 
And not upon these few smooth hours encroach ; — 

1 come, I come, think not I turn away ! 

Fold round me thy gray robe ! I stand to feel 
The setting of my last frail earthly day ; 
I will not pluck it off, but calmly kneel ; 
For I am great as thou art, though not thou, 
And thought as with thee dwells upon my brow. 



140 DEATH. 

Ah ! might I ask thee, spirit, first to tend 

Upon those dear ones whom my heart has found, 

And supplicate thee, that I might them lend 

A light in their last hours, and to the ground 

Consign them still, — yet think me not too weak, — • 

Come to me now, and thou shalt find me meek, 

Then let us live in fellowship with thee, 

And turn our ruddy cheeks thy kisses pale, 

And listen to thy song as minstrelsy, 

And still revere thee, till our hearts' throbs fail, 

Sinking within thy arms as sinks the sun 

Below the farthest hills, when his day's work is done. 



SONNETS 



I. 

TO AN IDEAL OBJECT. 

Though far away, I still shall see thee here, 
Shall see thy eyes so deep, thy modest mien, 
And hear that fairy laughter, which yestreen 
Fell like sweet music on my spell-bound ear. 

Though far away, in truth thou dwelPst as near 

As wert thou daily, hourly to be seen, 

Nor of thy truthfulness have I a fear, 

What is with thee stands fast and shows serene. 

Would thou wert real, creature of my brain ! 
Thy voice and laughter, and those deep, still eyes, 
And I of loneliness might not complain ; 

Then I should be inestimably wise, 
Nor end my days in this so bitter pain, 
Which far within my inmost being lies. 



142 SONNETS. 



II. 



Thou art like that which is most sweet and fair, 
A gentle morning in the youth of spring, 
When the few early birds begin to sing 
Within the delicate depths of the fine air. 

Yet shouldst thou these dear beauties much impair, 
Since thou art better than is every thing 
Which or the woods, or skies, or green fields bring, 
And finer thoughts hast thou than they can wear. 

In the proud sweetness of thy grace I see, 
What lies within, a pure and steadfast mind, 
Which its own mistress is of sanctity, 

And to all gentleness hath been refined ; 
So that thy least breath falleth upon me 
As the soft breathing of midsummer wind. 



SONNETS. 143 



III. 



Men change, that heaven above not more, 
Which now with white clouds is all beautiful, 
Soon is with gray mists a poor creature dull ; 
Thus, in this human theatre, actions pour 

Like slight waves on a melancholy shore ; 
Nothing is fixed, the human heart is null, 
'T is taught by scholars, ' tis rehearsed in lore ; 
Methinks this human heart might well be o'er. 

O precious pomp of eterne vanity ! 

O false fool world ! whose actions are a race 

Of monstrous puppets ; I can't form one plea 

Why any man should wear a smiling face. 
World ! thou art one green sepulchre to me, 
Through which, mid clouds of dust, slowly I pace. 



144 SONNETS. 



IV. 



Hearts of Eternity, — hearts of the deep ! 
Proclaim from land to sea your mighty fate ; 
How that for you no living comes too late ; 
How ye cannot in Theban labyrinth creep ; 

How ye great harvests from small surface reap ; 
Shout, excellent band, in grand primeval strain, 
Like midnight winds that foam along the main, 
And do all things rather than pause to weep. 

A human heart knows nought of littleness, 
Suspects no man, compares with no one's ways, 
Hath in one hour most glorious length of days, 

A recompense, a joy, a loveliness ; 

Like eaglet keen, shoots into azure far, 

And always dwelling nigh is the remotest star. 



SONNETS. 145 



The brook is eddying in the forest dell 
All full of untaught merriment, — the joy 
Of breathing life is this green wood's employ. 
The wind is feeling through his gentle bell, 

I and my flowers receive this music well. 

Why will not man his natural life enjoy ? 

Can he then with his ample spirit toy ? 

Are human thoughts, like wares, now baked to sell ? 

All up, all round, all down, a thrilling deep, 
A holy infinite salutes the sense, 
And incommunicable praises leap, 

Shooting the entire soul with love intense 
Throughout the all. Can man live on to weep, 
Submitting to such heavenly influence ? 



10 



146 SONNETS. 



VI. 

There never lived a man, who with a heart 
Resolved, bound up, concentered in the good, 
However low or high in rank he stood, 
But when from him yourself had chanced to start, 

You felt how goodness alway maketh art ; 
And that an ever venerable mood 
Of sanctity, like the deep worship of a wood, 
Of its unconsciousness makes you a part. 

Let us live amply in the joyous all ; 

We surelv were not meant to ride the sea 

Skimming the wave in that so prisoned small, 

Reposing our infinite faculties utterly. 

Boom like a roaring sunlit waterfall 

Humming to infinite abysms ; speak loud, speak free. 



SONNETS. 147 

VII. 

THE ETERNAL LANDSCAPE. 

There weeps a landscape that some mortals see, 
Whose time slips on to noble purpose fair, 
And of an hour escaped from carking care 
That sight is star of their nativity. 

Falls the warm, mellow light on field and tree, 
Almost it will their breathing overbear 
To find this world such holy robe does wear, 
And sinketh through them, privilege to be. 

That time is dead, — so the swift crowd will say 
Of human beings creeping down in woe, 
Yet to the true, in that long-passed day 

Is parent of the chief they really know ; 

And casting off external busy clay, 

A world of memory lies like glass below. 



148 SONNETS. 



VIII. 

I mark beneath thy life the virtue shine 

That deep within the star's eye opes its day ; 

I clutch those gorgeous thoughts thou throw'st away, 

From the profound unfathomable mine, 

And with them this mean, common hour do twine, 
As glassy waters o'er the dry beach play, 
And I were rich as night, them to combine 
With my poor store, and warm me with thy ray. 

From the fixed answer of those dateless eyes 

I meet bold hints of spirit's mystery 

As to what 's past, and hungry prophecies 

Of deeds to-day, and things which are to be ; 
Of lofty life that with the eagle flies, 
And lowly love, that clasps humanity. 



SONNETS. 149 



IX. 



In those bright, laughing days that pierce the fall, 
With sunny spears forged from the summer's glow, 
The crimson leaves sail slowly on the pall 
Of the warm fitful air ; but there will blow 

At sunset a cool breeze ; then the leaves flow 
In heaped-up multitudes beneath the wall ; 
Thus drifts of bodies to the graveyard go, 
And the pinched foliage in their times recall. 

That fall's warm wind is first affection's tear, 
And near remembrance, with its fiery thought ; 
That frosty breeze is memory, all grown sere, 

And consolation, curiously wrought ; 

That pile of sapless sheaths the hosts who died, 

And those we lately added to their side. 



150 SONNETS. 



X. 



Earth hath her meadows green, her brooklets bright ; 
She hath a million flowers which bloom aloft, 
O'ershade her peerless glances the clouds soft, 
And dances on her sward the capering light. 

She hath a full glad day, a solemn night, 
And showers, and trees, and waterfallings oft. 
Meekly I love her, and in her delight ; 
I am as one who ministers in rite. 

But so much soul hast thou within thy form, 
Than luscious summer days thou art the more, 
iVnd far within thee there is that more warm 

Than ever sunlight to the wild flowers bore, 
Thou great glad gentleness, and sweetly clear, 
Thou who art mine to love and to revere. 



SONNETS. 151 



XL 



I love the universe, — I love the joy 

Of every living thing. Be mine the sure 

Felicity, which ever shall endure ; 

While passion whirls the madmen, as they toy, 

To hate, I would my simple being warm 
In the calm pouring sun ; and in that pure 
And motionless silence, ever would employ 
My best true powers, without a thought's annoy. 

See and be glad ! O high imperial race, 
Dwarfing the common altitude of strength, 
Learn that ye stand on an unshaken base ; 

Your powers will carry you to any length. 

Up ! earnestly feel the gentle sunset beams ; 

Be glad in woods, o'er sands, — by marsh, or streams. 



POEMS. 



POEMS 



BY 



WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING, 



SECOND SERIES. 



BOSTON: 

JAMES MUNROE AND COMPANY. 



M DCCC XLVII. 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by 

William Ellery Channing, 

in the Clerk's office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 



boston: 

PRINTED BY THURSTON, TORRY AND CO. 

3! Devonshire Street. 






CONTENTS. 



NEW ENGLAND . 

ITALIAN SONG . 

THE WANDERER 

THE POET OF THE OLD AND NEW TIMES 

THE JOURNEY . 

THE SEXTON'S STORY 

FIELD-BIRDS' NESTS. 

THE SNOW-STORM 

TO ANNA DE ROSE 

THE RESTLESS MIND 

TO ELIZABETH 

ARAB SONG 

FIRST LOVE 

THE DESERT 



PAGE 
1 

14 

16 
19 
23 
27 
35 
38 
40 
44 
46 
50 
54 
58 



VI 



CONTENTS. 



AUTUMN WOODS 

THE LONELY ROAD 

REPENTANCE 

THE ARCHED STREAM 

A DREAM OUT-OF-DOORS 

TO THE POETS 

THE MOUNTAINS 

TO ONE COMPLAINING 

MID-WINTER 

WACHUSETT 

THE POET 

TO THE PAST 

POEMS OF THE HEART 

THE FADED FLOWERS 

TO READERS 

THE WINTER LANDSCAPE 

TO MY COMPANIONS 

A WOODLAND THOUGHT 

ODE 

HYMN OF THE EARTH 

AUTUMN . 

MARIANA 

THE ISLAND NUKUHEVA 



CONTENTS. Vll 

THE ICE RAVINE 153 

THE BARREN MOORS 155 

WALDEN 157 

OF KEATS 159 



POEMS. 



NEW ENGLAND. 



I will not sing for gain, nor yet for fame, 

Though praise I shall enjoy if come it may, 

I will not sing to make my nature tame, 

And thus it is if I seek Fortune's way. 

But I will chant a rude heroic lay, 

On rough New England's coast, whose sterile soil 

Gives happiness and dignity to toil. 

If I may be a Son of those stern men, 

Who took this Indian land to make them free, 

And grasping in my hand a Poet's pen, 

Thus as a Poet their great thoughts decree, 

I then shall think I strike for liberty ; 

My hand, my heart, my pen all draining up, 

The imperial vintage in rich Freedom's cup. 



NEW ENGLAND. 

In a New England hand the lyre must beat 
With brave emotions ; such the winter wind 
Sweeps on chill pinions, when the cutting sleet 
Doth the bare traveller in the fields half blind, 
Yet freezing to the trees congeals a rind, 
Next day more brilliant than the Arab skies, 
Or plumes from gorgeous birds of Paradise. 

A bold and nervous hand must strike the strings, 
Our varying climate forms its children so, 
And what we lack in Oriental things, 
We render good by that perpetual blow, 
Which wears away the strongest rocks we know, 
Sure in supply, and constant in demand, 
Active and patient, fit to serve or stand. 

They do malign us who contract our hope 
To prudent gain or blind religious zeal, 
More signs than these shine in our horoscope, 
Nobly to live, to do, and dare, and feel, 
Knit to each other by firm bands of steel, 
Our eyes to God we turn, our hearts to home, 
Standing content beneath the azure dome. 



NEW ENGLAND. 

My country, 'tis for thee I strike the lyre, 

My country, wide as is the free wind's flight, 

I sing New England as she lights her fire 

In every Prairie's midst ; and where the bright 

Enchanting stars shine pure through Southern night, 

She still is there the guardian on the tower, 

To open for the world a purer hour. 

Could they but know the wild enchanting thrill 
That in our homely houses fills the heart, 
To feel how faithfully New England's will 
Beats in each artery, and each small part 
Of this great Continent, their blood would start 
In Georgia, or where Spain once sat in state, 
Or Texas with her lone star desolate. 

Because they shall be free, — we wish it thus ; 

In vain against our purpose may they turn, 

They are our Brothers, and belong to us, 

And on our altars Slavery shall burn, 

Its ashes buried in a silent urn. 

Then think not 'tis a vain New England boast, — 

We love the distant West, the Atlantic coast. 



NEW ENGLAND, 



'Tis a New England thought, to make this land 
The very home of Freedom, and the nurse 
Of each sublime emotion ; she does stand 
Between the sunny South, and the dread curse 
Of God, who else should make her hearse 
Of condemnation to this Union's life, — 
She stands to heal this plague, and banish strife. 

I do not sing of this, but hymn the day 
That gilds our cheerful villages and plains, 
Our hamlets strewn at distance on the way, 
Our forests and the ancient streams' domains, 
We are a band of Brothers, and our pains 
Are freely shared, no beggar in our roads, 
Content and peace within our fair abodes. 

In my small Cottage on the lonely hill, 

Where like a Hermit I must bide my time, 

Surrounded by a landscape lying still 

All seasons through as in the winter's prime, 

Rude and as homely as these verses chime, 

I have a satisfaction which no king 

Has often felt, if Fortune's happiest thing. 



NEW ENGLAND. 

'Tis not my Fortune, which is mainly low, 

'Tis not my merit, that is nothing worth, 

'T is not that I have stores of Thought below 

Which everywhere should build up Heaven on earth, 

Nor was I highly favored in my birth, 

Few friends have I, and they are much to me, 

Yet fly above my poor Society. 

But all about me live New England men, 
Their humble houses meet my daily gaze, — 
The children of this land where Life again 
Flows like a great stream in sunshiny ways, 
This is a joy to know them, and my days 
Are filled with love to meditate on them, 
These native gentlemen on Nature's hem. 

That I could take one feature of their life, 
Then on my page a mellow light should shine ; 
Their days are Holy days with labor rife, 
Labor the song of praise, that sounds divine, 
And better than all sacred hymns of mine ; 
The patient Earth sets platters for their food, 
Corn, milk, and apples, and the best of good. 



b NEW ENGLAND. 

See here no shining scenes for artist's eye, 
This woollen frock shall make no painter's fame, 
These homely tools all burnishing deny, 
The beasts are slow and heavy, still or tame, 
The sensual eye may think this labor lame, 
'T is in the Man where lies the sweetest art, 
His true endeavor in his earnest part. 

The wind may blow a hurricane, but he 
Goes fairly onward with the thing in hand, 
He sails undaunted on the crashing sea, 
Beneath the keenest winter frost does stand, 
And by his Will, he makes his way command, 
Till all the seasons smile delight to feel 
The grasp of his hard hand encased in steel. 

He meets the year confiding, no great throws, 

That suddenly bring riches does he use, 

But like Thor's hammer vast, his patient blows, 

Vanquish his difficult tasks, he does refuse 

To tread the path, nor know the way he views, 

No sad complaining words he uttereth, 

But draws in peace a free and easy breath. 



NEW ENGLAND. 

I love to meet him on the frozen road, 

How manly is his eye, as clear as air ; — 

He cheers his beasts without the brutal goad, 

His face is ruddy, and his features fair, 

His brave, good-day, sounds like an honest prayer, 

This man is in his place and feels his trust, 

'T is not dull plodding through the heavy crust. 

And when I have him at his homely hearth, 
Within his homestead, where no ornament 
Glows on the mantle but his own true worth, 
I feel as if within an Arab's tent, 
His hospitality is more than meant ; 
I there am welcome, as the sunlight is, 
I must feel warm to be a Friend of his. 

This man takes pleasure o'er the crackling fire, 
His glittering axe subdued the monarch oak, 
He earned the cheerful blaze by something higher 
Than pensioned blows, he owned the tree he stroke, 
And knows the value of the distant smoke, 
When he returns at night his labor done, 
Matched in his action with the long day's sun. 



8 NEW ENGLAND. 

I love these homely mansions, and to me 

A Farmer's house seems better than a King's, 

The palace boasts its art, but liberty 

And honest pride and toil are splendid things ; 

They carved this clumsy lintel, and it brings 

The man upon its front ; Greece hath her art, 

But this rude homestead shows the farmer's heart. 

How many brave adventures with the cold, 
Built up the cumbrous cellar of plain stone, 
How many summer heats the bricks did mould, 
That make the ample fireplace, and the tone 
Of twice a thousand winds sings through the zone, 
Of rustic paling round the modest yard, — 
These are the verses of this simple bard. 

Who sings the praise of Woman in our clime, — 

I do not boast her beauty or her grace, 

Some humble Duties render her sublime, 

She the sweet nurse of this New England race, 

The flower upon the country's sterile face, 

The mother of New England's sons, the pride 

Of every house where those good sons abide. 



NEW ENGLAND. 

There is a Roman splendor in her smile, 
A tenderness that owes its depth to toil, 
Well may she leave the soft voluptuous wile, 
That forms the woman of a softer soil ; 
She' does pour forth herself a fragrant oil, 
Upon the dark asperities of Fate, 
And make a garden else all desolate. 

From early morn to fading eve she stands, 
Labor's best offering on the shrine of worth, 
And labor's jewels glitter on her hands, 
To make a plenty out of partial dearth, 
To animate the heaviness of earth, 
To stand and serve serenely through the pain, 
To nurse a vigorous race and ne'er complain. 

New England women are New England's pride ; 
'Tis fitting they should be sc, they are free, — 
Intelligence doth all their acts decide, 
Such deeds more charming than old ancestry. 
I could not dwell beside them, and not be 
Enamored of them greatly ; they are meant 
To charm the Poet, by their pure intent. 



10 NEW ENGLAND. 

A natural honest bearing of their lot, 
Cheerful at work, and happy when 'tis done, 
They shine like stars within the humblest cot, 
And speak for freedom centred all in one. 
From every river's side I hear the son 
Of some New England woman answer me, 
" Joy to our Mothers, who did make us free." 

And when those wanderers turn to home again, 

See the familiar village, and the street 

Where they once frolick'd, they are less than men 

If in their eyes the tear-drops do not meet, 

To feel how soon their mothers they shall greet, 

Sons of New England have no dearer day, 

Than once again within those arms to lay. 

These are her men and women, this the sight 
That greets me daily when I pass their homes, 
It is enough to love, it throws some light 
Over the gloomiest hours, the fancy roams 
No more to Italy or Greece, the loams 
Whereon we tread are sacred by the lives 
Of those who till them, and our comfort thrives. 



NEW ENGLAND. 11 

Here might one pass his days, content to be 
The witness of these spectacles alway, f 
Bring if you may your treasure from the sea, 
My pride is in my Townsmen, where the day 
Rises so fairly on a race who lay 
Their hopes on Heaven, after their toil is o'er, 
Upon this rude and bold New England shore. 

Vainly ye pine-woods rising on the height, 
Should lift your verdant boughs and cones aloft, 
Vainly ye winds should surge around in might, 
Or murmur o'er the meadow stanzas soft, 
To me should nothing yield or lake or croft, 
Had not the figures of the pleasant scene, 
Like trees and fields an innocent demean. 

I feel when I am here some pride elate, 
Proud in your presence who do duty here, 
For I am some partaker of your fate ; 
Your manly anthem vibrates in my ear, 
Your hearts are heaving unconsumed by fear, 
Your modest deeds are constantly supplied, 
Your simple truths by which you must abide. 



^v * .^ „ 






12 NEW ENGLAND. 

Therefore I love a cold and flinty realm, 

I love the sky that hangs New England o'er, 

And if I were embarked, and at the helm, 

I ran my vessel on New England's shore, 

And dashed upon her crags, would live no more, 

Rather than go to seek those lands of graves, 

Where men who tread the fields are cowering slaves. 

I love the mossy rocks so strangely rude, 

The little forests, underwood and all, — 

I love the damp paths of the Solitude, 

Where in the tiny brook some waterfall 

Gives its small shower of diamonds to the thrall 

Of light's pursuing reflex, and the trill 

Of the bright cascade, making silence still. 

I love the cold, sad Winter's lengthened time, 

When man half aches with cold, and Nature seems 

To leer and grimace with an icy smile, 

And all the little life is clad in dreams, 

I love it even if the far Sun-beams 

Look through the clouds like faces filled with woe, ^_ 

Like mourners who to funerals do go. 



NEW ENGLAND. 13 

Search me ye wintry winds for I am proof; 
New England's kindness circles round my heart. 
I see afar that old declining roof > 
Where underneath dwells something which is part 
Of Nature's sweetest music ; — through me dart 
Your coldest spasms, there burns manhood's fire, 
I sit by that as warm as I desire. 

And if the torrid August sun scalds down, 
And big drops stand upon my brow like rain, 
I can enjoy this fire, and call it crown 
To my content ; it ripens golden grain, 
New England corn, — I prize the fervid pain, 
An honest hand has planted comfort there, 
And fragrant coolness steals throughout the air. 

It seems a happy thing that I was born 

In rough New England, here that I may be, 

Among a race whom all mankind adorn ; 

A plain strong race deep-rooted as a tree, 

And I am most content my ancestry 

Dates back no further than New England's date, — 

What worth is King or Lord, where man is State. 



14 



ITALIAN SONG. 



The old Tower gray- 
Bids purple day- 
Paint the grave mosses with its Tyrian hue, 
And fine-toned Night 
Rounds with dim light 
Each crumbling stone into proportion due. 

My tinkling lute 

Converts the mute 
And humble silence into golden singing ; 

The laden air 

Rich scents doth bear, 
Around the ruin, vase-like odors flinging. 



ITALIAN SONG. 15 

The Tower's round song 
Dances along, 
Like a brown gondola through the still sea, 
Its shadow sings, 
My love-note brings, 
How sweet is night, in my own Italy. 



16 



THE WANDERER. 



Who is that wight, who wanders there 
So often o'er those lonely fields, — 

Can solitude his thought repair, 
Or filch the honey that he yields ? 

I see him often by the brook, 
He pauses on some little rock, 

Or, sheltered in a sunny nook, 

He sits, nor feels the sharp wind's shock. 

I meet him in the lonely lane, 
Where merrily I drive my team, 

And seek his downcast eye in vain, 
To break the silence of his dream. 



THE WANDERER. 17 

And sometimes when I fell the trees, 

He muses with a saddened eye, 
While leaps the forest like the Seas, 

When tide and wind are running high. 

Yet never questions he a word, 

Of what I do or where I go, 
His gentle voice I never heard, 

His voice so soft and sweetly low. 

And once at Sunset, on the hill 

He stood and gazed at scenes afar, 

While fell the twilight o'er the rill, 
And glittered in the west, — a star. 

I cannot see his years improve, 

He leaves no tokens on the way, 
'T is simply breathing, or to move 

Like some dim spectre through the day. 

And yet I love him, for his form 
Seems graceful as a Maiden's sigh, 

And something beautiful and warm 
Is shadowed in his quiet eye. 



18 THE WANDERER. 

Thus spoke the driver of the wain, — 
While solemnly he passed along, 

This man unknown to fame or gain, 
The hero of no Poet's song. 

And there he wanders yet, I trust, 
A figure pensive as the scene, 

Created from the common dust, 
Yet treading o'er the grasses green. 



19 



THE POET 



OF THE OLD AND NEW TIMES 



In olden time the Poet sang, 

The ancient hall with ballads rang, 

Wandering he touched the golden lyre, 

By the ancestral Castle's fire, 

A sacred man the Poet then, 

Beloved by gods, beloved by men. 

Afar the Shepherd on the hill, 
Saw from his height this child of skill, 
And straightway left his flock to go 
And greet the bard who moved below, 
The stern mechanic left his work, 
His hammer fell not on the berk. 



20 THE POET OF THE OLD 

The gentle ladies sat and heard 
The ditties of the tuneful bird, 
With fine regard they greeted him ; 
He saner, — their soft eves swam so dim 
They often wept ; the Poet's song 
To the heart's secret did belong. 

The Poets recked not for their fare, 

Their comfort was the People's care ; 

They sang, — the doors were open wide, 

They loved, — the nation dowered the Bride, 

They saw the wealth around them flow 
Of princes, — 't is no longer so. 

The wandering Bard no city claims, 
The nation loves not poet's aims, 
A lonely man he bides afar, 
His halls are fields, his lamp a star, 
Nature's so regal, she does wait 
And minister his ancient state. 

The Brook must be his mirror now, 
His organ in the dark Pine-bough, 



AND NEW TIMES. 21 

For ladies' eyes the flowerets dyes, 
The southern rain his lady's sighs, 
The grass the carpet of his Hall, 
The trees its pillars smooth and tall. 

Few doors are open if he sings, 
Faint welcome with his lyre he brings, 
Cold eyes avert from him their gaze, 
The world suspects his idle ways, 
He sits not on the hearth so wide, 
For Priest and Clerk him thrust aside. 

Now few can comprehend his way, 
The haze has overspread his day, 
Forgotten, stands he quite apart, — 
The life-blood of the Nation's heart, 
He sings alone, the crowds go by, 
And question him with curious eye. 

O world, thou hast the Poet's art 
Thyself, — he counterfeits thy part, 
And of his age the Poet's lyre, 
Is instrument of pure desire, 



22 THE POET OF THE OLD AND NEW TIMES. 

Most joyful let the Poet be, 

It is through him that all men see. 

Not ever falls the Sunshine clear, 
And heavy clouds obscure the mere, 
Not ever is the fruit-tree proud, 
For worms weave oft its yellow shroud, 
Yet smiles the sky, the tree comes green, 
The Poet shall be heard and seen. 

My country, in thy early hour, 

I feel the magic of thy power, 

Thy hands are strong, thy aims are long, 

To thee the Poets shall belong, 

I mark thy pride in them, and they 

Shall sing thee in heroic lay. 

For in thy stature there is strength, 
And in thy aims an endless length, 
And Bards shall praise thy features fair, 
And Poesy fill all the air, 
Clear as thy dazzling sunshines are, 
Deep as thy forests waving far. 



23 



THE JOURNEY. 



A breezy softness fills the air, 
That clasps the tender hand of Spring, 
And yet no brooklet's voice does sing, 
For all is purest stillness there, 
Unless the light, soft foliage waves ; 
The boughs are clothed in shining green, 
Through which ne'er angry Tempest raves, 
And sunlight shines between. 

ii. 

Beneath the oak a Palmer lay, 
Upon the green-sward was his bed, 
And its luxuriance bound the gray 
And silver Laurel o'er his head. 



24 • THE JOURNEY. 

A picture framed by calm repose, 

A Grecian monument of life, 

Too placid for the storm of woes, 

Too grateful to be worn by strife. 

I should have passed, — he bade me stay, 

And tranquilly these w T ords did say. — 

Thou curtain of the tender spring, 
Thy graces to my old eyes bring 
The recollections of those years, 
When sweet are shed our early tears, 
Those days of sunny April weather, 
Changeful and glad with every thing, 
When Youth and Age go linked together, 
Like sisters twain, and sauntering 
Down mazy paths in ancient woods, 
The garlands of such solitudes. — 

in. 

I passed along, 

The Palmer's song, 
Still sounding with its clear content, 
At length I reached my promised tent. 



THE JOURNEY. 

Around, were crags of ruin piled, 
The temples of a Nation's pride, 
Within their clefts the bright stars smiled, 
And moonlight swept the court-yard wide. 
Some Ivy-boughs o'erhung the wall, 
Or bound the pillars' sculptured fall, 
Whilst deepening Shade lay o'er the place, 
That still the grandeur would efface. 

IV. 

Not long I slept, — the wind awoke, 

A river from the mountains came, 

All through the Temple's courts it broke, 

While they were lit by lightning's flame. 
The skies hurled down their bolts of dread, 
But still my little Tent was good, 
No drop of rain fell on my head, 
Unarmed amid the war I stood. 

v. 
A mightier blast, — more lurid light, 
The wind dispersed my sheltering fold, 
I paused an instant in the night, 
Then sought that mighty Temple old. 



26 THE JOURNEY. 

The channel of the stream I sought, 
And bravely with the waters fought. 
I saw the glancing fires design, 
To smite the stone's colossal form 
That jutted from the topmost line, — 
Too cold that steady heart to warm ; 
I gained beyond the Court a bank, 
And fainting in the darkness sank» 



27 



THE SEXTON'S STORY. 



These quiet meadows, and the sloping bank 
With its green hem of hardy pines, whose leaves 
The sudden frosts, and sudden Autumn rains 
Cannot displace, have been the scenes of conflict. 
Housed in the yielding Sand that shapes the bank, 
The early Settlers lodged their sturdy frames, 
And on these Meadows where the brook o'erflows, 
They saw the Indians glide, their dusky hue, 
Agreeing with the brown and withered grass. 
Their Memory yet endures to paint this scene, 
And oft as I sit musing, they become 
Scarcely less living than in Days of old. 
Noble adventurers, godlike Puritans ! 
Poets in deed, who came, and saw, and braved 
The accumulated wilderness, and read 



28 the sexton's story. 

The fatal policy of Indian guile, 

May we, your Sons, thus conquer the wild foes 

Who aim their shafts at your sublime Design. 

It was a Winter's day. The air came keen 

Across the Meadows, sheeted with pure snow, 

New fallen, that now as day wheeled downward 

Had ceased to fall, and the clouds parting off, 

Mild showers of light spread o'er the groves and fields, 

And as the light grew brighter, the wind failed, 

And with the calm came a most perfect frost, 

That sealed the very glances of the sun, 

No longer warm to Man, or beast, or field. 

The Sexton of our village was an old 
And weather-beaten artizan, whose life 
Led him to battle with the depths of cold. 
Amid the Woods he plied a vigorous arm, 
The tall trees crashed in thunder 'neath his stroke, 
And a hale cheer was spread about his form. 
Death does not stand and falter at the cold, 
And our brave Sexton plied his pickaxe bright, 
Whether the soft Snow fell, or 'mid the Rains. 



the sexton's story. 29 

This day, this Winter's day, he made a grave 

For a young Blossom which the frost had nipped, 

And towards the sunset hour he took his way, 

Across the Meadows wide, and o'er the Brook, 

Beyond the bridge and through the leafless arch 

Of Willows that supports the sunken road 

To the sad house of Death, bearing with him 

The frail, light tenement that bounds the corpse. 

The Sexton's heart beat cheerly in his breast, 

For constant commerce with the grave had lined 

The Coffin's smooth inside with frugal wit. 

He saw no Terror in the mouldering form 

Of that, where late the ruddy current ran 

In social sympathy, and generous mirth. 

The ghastly bones, the pale, remorseless hand 

That strikes those shuddering notes on Human lyres, 

E'en Death himself kept company with him. 

This was no stolid want of sympathy, 

Or cold forgetfulness of mortal woe, 

Or curious hankering thought to purchase ease, 

The Sexton had forgotten what Death was, 

And graves he dealt in, as some deal in Farms. 



30 the sexton's story. 

He turned when near the Bridge, for such a flush 
Of crimson wandered o'er the snow, the fields 
So glowed as if with Summer's fire, his heart 
Bounded to meet that last gold glance of Day. 
But it felt wondrous cold, and was so still, 
As if the Frost had fastened on itself. 
He reached the house of death, — a friendly house, 
And sat in peace to see the Wood-fire flash, 
His numb and stiffened fingers spread to meet 
The cheerful warmth, and then he spoke as one 
Who came from living worlds, for in that house, 
There was a pensive figure in one seat. 
The Sexton did not see that figure sad, 
But the pale Mother with her tear-stained eyes, 
Look'd on and drooped her head, the Father, too, 
He looked and saw that youth, the cold, cold form 
Of wintry Death who sits by some sad hearths. 

When he stept forth upon his homeward path, 
('T was a short saunter to the Village church,) 
A change was in the sky, a wild wind blew, 
The Frost had tired of silence, and now played 



THE SEXTON'S STORY. 31 

A merry Battle-march with the light snow, 

That whirled across the road in dizzy sport, 

White wreaths for banners, and gay sparkling sheets. 

The last ray faded in the sleeping West, 

Day had abandoned earth, and the weird Night 

That asks from human eye no sympathy, 

Called up a host of Actors for its play. 

From the soft hills that hem the Meadows in, 

The Sexton heard the music of the Pines, 

A sudden gush of sounds, as when a flock 

Of startled Birds are beating through the air, 

And tossing off the light from their quick wings ; 

Then pauses of deep silence, that his ear 

Accustomed to the sounds of cheerful day 

Could not contain, and first his Inward voice. — 

— It is a bitter night, but I have felt 

More cold without anxiety. The snow 

Beats heavily o'er the unsheltered road, 

Huge drifts to-morrow, and hard sledding here. — 

Then came a heavier blast than all before, 

And beat upon the cheerful Sexton's front, 



32 the sexton's story. 

As the broad, tossing billows breast the Ship. 

He ploughed along the way, nor fence, nor shrub, 

And a dark curtain in the air. The stars 

Were flickering, as the distant Light-boat moored, 

Shifts to the Pilot's eye each breaking wave. 

His eye not eager sought the Willow arch, 

A little onward to the Bridge, he thought, 

And pausing beat his stout arms on his breast, 

Then turned and faced the wintry surge again. — 

One step, — and then his feet sank through, — the edge 

It was of the deep Brook that wandered down 

The dreary Meadows, sinuous in its course. 

The Sexton's feet slipped o'er the glassy plate, 

He was across, — across the meadow Brook. 

He sank upon the Snow, and breathed a prayer, 

His heart thrilled strangely with an icy fear, 

His thoughts ran in dim shapes across his brain, 

A tumult of wild Images of woe, 

And one dark warning figure, wintry Death, 

Stood on the bank, and said with gentle voice : — 

Yes, now across the Brook thy feet have come, 

The deep, black Brook, 't was never known to freeze ; 



the sexton's story. 33 

It has upborne thee on its icy scale 

Where but a feather's weight had turned the beam. 

Thou, not in battle, nor in sharp disease, 

But here within the peaceful village Fields, 

Hast by the veriest chance, as may'st thou think, 

Been guided well through such a sudden fear, 

As no dark dream had conjured in thy mind. 

Yet by no chance, since this a lesson is, 

To teach thee if the burial and the tomb 

Consign to rest the palsied Shapes of Life, 

How grand that Hour must be, when the bright soul 

Led by my hand, draws nigh to the deep Stream, 

Across whose icy flow no Mortal walks, 

In whose still unvexed Depths, the hosts of Men, 

Still ever following, sink without return. — 

There stood a Laborer's cottage not afar, 
Where the Day's toil was over, and they sat, 
The family about the crackling fire, 
In merry mood, and heard the Spinning-wheels 
Hum like a swarm of bees in Summer time, 
For all the wind's loud bluster, and the cold 

3 



34 the sexton's story. 

That like a cunning Thief crept round the hut. 
They sudden hear a lamentable sound, 
A voice of deep despair imploring aid. 
The Laborer listens and the sounds renew, 
The voice comes from the Meadow, and his dog 
The Laborer calls, and muffling in his frock, 
He finds the Sexton by the Brook sunk down, 
And stiffening like the cold and icy Night. 

Next day, they traced the hardy Sexton's steps, 

And found that but one narrow arch across 

The meadow Brook, the spanning frost had thrown 

As if in sport, to try its secret powers. 

And there the Sexton crossed, — that little arch 

Left him alive to guide the funeral train 

That from the friendly house came forth in woe. 

It taught this lesson, that in common hours 

There hides deep meaning, and a sudden fear, 

Nor need we track the deserts of the Pole, 

To 'scape from sight of Death and life's dark Night. 



35 



FIELD-BIRDS' NESTS, 



Beyond the Brook so swift I went, 
Beyond the fields my course I bent, 
Where on the height the oak grove stands, 
And Hemlocks thick like iron bands. 

And by the marsh, and by the pond, 
Though I had wandered oft beyond, 
Never before I saw those eight, 
Those eight Birds' nests now desolate. 

Each nest was filled with snow and leaves, 
Each nest that some small songster weaves, 
Yet pleasantly they seemed to me, 
These little homes of yesterday. 



36 field-birds' nests. 

So frail these buildings that the wind 
To airy journeys them consigned, 
Had not the architect displayed 
The quiet cunning of his trade. 

On some small twig the house was laid, 
That every breath from Heaven swayed, 
The nests swing easy as the bush, 
The wind in vain on these may push. 

Some grass and sticks together piled, 
Secure as stately Palace tiled ; 
A twig the rock on which they stand, 
As firm as acres of deep land. 

Another summer comes the Bird, 
Her sweetly swelling song is heard, 
She hops into her little home, 
Her mate then merrily does come. 

Ye men who pass a wretched life, 
Consumed with care, consumed with strife, 
Whose gloom grows deeper day by day, 
The audience at a tiresome play ; 



field-birds' nests. 37 

Who build the stately palaces, 
Where only endless Gilding is, 
Who riot in perpetual show, 
In dress, and wine, and costly woe ; 

Who haunt the narrow City's street, 
Surrounded by a thousand feet, 
With weary wrinkles in your brows, 
And faltering penance in your vows ; 

Think of the little Field-bird's nest ; 
Can you not purchase such a rest, 
A twig, some straws, a dreamy moor, 
The same some Summers going o'er. 



38 



THE SNOW-STORM, 



That is the best Poem out there, 
To see the snow drift by. 
See how it goes, 
Hear how it blows, 
One continual long-drawn sigh. 

Casements rattle in its blatter, 

And the solid Housetop shakes, 

It paints the wall, 

The road and all, 

With its pigment of pure flakes. 



THE SNOW-STORM. 39 

When I walk within its growling, 
Soft it calleth unto me, 

How cold it is, 

And wet it is, 
Chill the Snow-storm utterly. 

Yet it seemeth warm directly, 
As the Summer's middle heat, 

Or some soft day 

In month of May, 
When the rustling leaves do beat. 

How you vex me stupid Snow-storm, 
With your variations bold, 
Thou art so warm, 
So sweet in form, 
Thou art so ugly, art so cold. 

A truce to thy continual sighing, 
Thy hypocritic face so white, 
Come dear brown earth, 
Come Spring's soft birth, 
Go, go, thou hoary eremite. 



40 



TO ANNA DE ROSE. 



Was it a dream, — I saw the lances glance, 
And gaily leapt on polished helms the sun, 

Was it a dream, — I saw the festal dance, 
For happily the Tournament begun, 

Was it a dream, — or in that softest eye, 

Anna de Rose, whose name is chivalry. 

Was it a dream, — I saw the ancient hall, 
The warder old, and watch-dog at his feet, 

Was it a dream, — I heard the Baron call, 
The draw-bridge fall, the horseman in his seat, 
Was it a dream, — or was thy sunny mouth, 
Anna de Rose, this picture of the south. 



TO ANNA DE ROSE. 41 

Was it a dream, — I saw the castle fire 

That lighted up the oaken Hall so wide, 

Was it a dream, — when drank the wine the Sire, 

And with his earnest gaze the Baron eyed, 

Was it a dream, — or was that pleasing thought 

Anna de Rose, thy figure richly wrought. 

These dreams were Anna what thou wert to me, 
A token of the Thought which in my youth 
About the busy world hung Courtesy, 
And colored every day with golden truth, 
Then, Knights and Ladies danced along the plain, 
Fair days had come, the world felt young again. 

I have had dreams which were Realities, 
I thought to dream no more, but thou didst come, 
And I have dreamed in sooth of those sweet eyes, 
That smiling mouth, and Beauty's priceless sum, 
I waked yet thou wert bright, and so despair 
Shall something softer, some mild aspect wear. 



I TO ANNA DE ROSE. 

I have had visions which have turned to pain, 
I mourn some altered friends, some misty days, 
Thou bringest to me many hours again 
When Sunlight fell, and oft the Star's clear rays, 
Bright hours were those, I am in debt to thee, 
Anna de Rose, and would thou wert to me. 

No more, I said, shall any Beauty go 
Before my eyes, to warm me w r ith its fire, 
No more the fairy Rivers softly flow 
That bear upon them, what I may desire, 
Some little beauty in the world I seek, 
In vain, the place is empty, wind is bleak. 

But ever as I lose my hold on Earth, 

She clasps me closer with a new-found treasure, 

And when I sigh she beckons infant Mirth, 

And when I weep she summons gentle Pleasure, 

Thus by the course of history I know, 

That still in Spring the violets shall blow. 



TO ANNA DE ROSE. 43 

Before thee lies the world, an aimless prize, 
Thou shall float onward, see the Distant near, 
O youth, why forward turn thy seeking eyes, 
Why not upon the Future look with fear, 
Yet not in utter fear, but with some dread, 
It must not be, with visions thou art fed. 

And were it in my power, my Dream should be, 
That Castle old, with its ancestral fire, 
That Baron and the warder, bold to see, 
And thou the Lady, while I touched the lyre, 
What matter if those forms we see no more, 
From Fancy's urn the brilliant waters pour. 

Thou listenest for thy Lord as eve draws nigh, 
Afar the courser fiery-footed springs, 
Then nearer draws the sound, thy gladdened eye 
Beams ere the Figure in the mailed rings 
Passes the castle-gate, — then falls the sun, 
Night is without, with thee Day has begun. 



44 



THE RESTLESS MIND. 



By the bleak wild hill, 

Or the deep lake still, 

In the silent grain 

On the upland plain, 

I would that the unsparing Storm might rage, 

And blot with gloom the fair day's sunny page. 

The lightning's gleam 

Should gentle seem, 

The thunder's blow 

Both soft and low, 

For now the world hath fill of summer weather, 

Ye shining days why throng you thus together. 



THE RESTLESS MIND. 45 

I am possest 

With strange Unrest, 

My feelings jar, 

My heart is war, 

A spirit dances in my dreams to-day, 

I am too cold, for its strange, sunny play. 

Then hurry down 

With angry frown, 

Thou sudden storm 

Come fierce and warm, 

And splinter trees and whistle o'er the moor, 

For in thy Bravery I can life endure. 



46 



TO ELIZABETH, 



Thou last sweet Beam of sunny day, 

Thou latest friend, 

Before thy light I bend, 
Too heavy earth to form thy shining way ; 
Thou last link of the golden chain, 
Thou Star amid these nights of misty rain ; 

Bright weather for us all, 

How joyful we are thrall. 
How wert thou sent so late, 

How was thy voice so mute, 
How many days did fate, 

Silence thy liquid lute ? 



TO ELIZABETH. 47 

Thou beacon Fire 

That o'er the unsounded deep, 
By thy warm heart's desire, 

Lightest the harbor's steep, 
Shed from thy eye the warning flame, 
Ere silence writes in tears the unheeded name. 

So many come and go 

Like a swift Fountain's flow, 
Glancing reflections of the passing scene, 
The mimicries of spheres, whose Fates are all ; 
The woods, the clouds, blue sky, and lawny green, 
One instant fixed, then nothing we can call, 

And o'er the unspeaking Fall. 

Weep not, — I see thine eyes 

Are filled with tears, 
Weep not, — for those revolving Memories 

Like autumn leaves, the years 
Whirl in the unvexed skies, 

And dim thy fears. 
For in the illimitable hand of Time, 
Who sweeps forever in vast silence, the sublime 



48 TO ELIZABETH. 

Slow-moving history of Man, 
Sure winnoweth that broad fan. 

Thou angel form, 
Thou calm and sunny day, 

Why in this storm 
Pursuest thou thy way, 
While we, pale Phantoms crowd around thy car, 
And catch a faint complexion from thy star. 
We do remember thee, 
For in the radiant Past had we some light, 

Thy voice reveals the key 
That made the music bright, 
Yet linger not so long amid our graves, 
And fear the rocks that tear the angry waves. 

Thou vase of Beauty, 
Carved in high relief 

With shapes of Gods, and forms 
That best Belief 
Gave to some Races towering o'er, 
All the low dwellers on this misty shore, 



TO ELIZABETH. 49 

Shall we not live, while Thou resolv'st to bear, 
Thy cold, dull crown of Grief, and proudly wear 
Garments of autumn foliage for an hour, 
Having immortal Beauty for thy dower. 



50 



ARAB SONG. 



Moor yon pillars of the sand 
To my Life, this burning day, 

Seize me in your sultry hand, 
Whirl me in your heat away : — 

So Alek said, a youth of flame, 

Whose pathway ran too smooth and tame. 



ii, 



The Desert stretched for miles along, 
Its perilous way so drear and wide, 

Where only sang the Stars their song, 
Which in the heavens did abide, 



ARAB SONG. 51 

A hymn of splendid glow and state, 
Though only with the Hermit mate. 

ill. 

Beneath the Palm tree's emerald shade, 
That over-roofed a sainted glade, 
A spot of coolness in the heat, 
Alek one day his Maid did meet. 
Within her eye's unmelting ice, 
He saw her Soul's deep purity, 
And prized it more than softest beams, 
That spoke a warm futurity. 

IV. 

They wandered to the glazed Well, 
Whose colors sank to deeps unknown, 
And heard afar the Camel's bell, 
Pitched in its sandy sultry tone ; 
The Nightingale sang sweet and free, 
As sweet as any sound could be, 
A pretty breeze toyed with the Palm, 
Not wind enough to stir the calm, 



52 ARAB SONG. 

And roses bled for Alek's eyes, 
What melted in his rich replies. 
A single glance, the Maiden sent, 
One look, — that in his firmament, 
Made planetary music far 
Beyond the hymn of any star. 

v. 

'T was in the Caliph's royal room, 
The hall of gilded pomp and state, 
That Alek saw the Maid, once more, 
And felt the presage of his fate ; 
For Alek's blood though highly wrought, 
No Palace with its greatness bought ; 
He met her eye amid the crowd, 
With but a slow salute she bowed, 
For the Maid's rank was gently high, — 
And Alek felt the cold reply. 

VI. 

Now mounted he his sable Steed, 
Who snuffed the moonlight all elate, 



ARAB SONG. 53 

Now pressed upon the tightening bit, 

Then passed the City's western gate, 
Where the tall Warrior saw the night, 
Sparkling with gems, and told its flight. 

VII. 

Away, he flies o'er parched Sands, 

The reins loose hanging from his hands ; 

His speed outrushing simoon's blast, 

His Courser whirling gladly past. 

By scattered palm, and fountain small, 

By sacred tomb, by city's wall, 

By river running merrily, 

By Mosque enlighted splendidly ; 

Like gray clouds driven by the wind, 

He left no trace of him behind, 

Yet in his race the Maid kept by, 

And Alek felt the cold reply. 



54 



FIRST LOVE. 



It was an old, a celebrated Church ; 
About the aisle ran many pillars tall, 
And carved wood-work the chancel gathered in ; 
An old, worn Church, sad was the sight to see. 
How lazy through the darkened window-panes, 
The sun half-way withdrawn shone dimly down ; 
Across those clumsy frames the spiders wove, 
A dull and heavy air of Sorrow hung 
About the old worn pile ; upon the Texts 
Graven in gold over the chancel's steps. 
But when, as comes the prelude to a storm, 
The deep-toned organ waked the drowsy air, 
And crept up cheerfully from underneath, 
The mournful building felt a sudden warmth, 
Those liberal Organ notes enlivened it. 



FIRST LOVE. 55 

There prayed and preached a godly, pious Clerk, 

To good and pious auditors most true. 

It was most sad to see the crowd throng up 

The dimly-lighted aisle, as if Ghosts came, 

Entranced by recollections of their Sins. 

Young Henry came not as a worshipper, 

To bend in worship to the blessed Lord, 

For in the ancient aisle one being stood, 

A young and fair-haired girl, whom Henry loved ; 

Her name was Hester, lovely as the Spring. 

To them, this reverend building was a fane, 

Whereon the God of love, fair Cupid laid 

Two youthful hearts, then kindled into flame. 

O what is love, young Love, what liquid fire, 
What undiscovered furnace lighted up, 
What mirror in our breasts that thus presents 
A mistress in her bloom and glorious hour. 
To Henry no such thoughts, on Hester's form 
The gentle youth turned gently a faint look, 
More worthy to be worshipped than the Host 
Which all the congregation worshipped. 



56 FIRST LOVE. 

Nor had the youth e'er told the Maid his love 
In words, which are the foremost curse of love. 
Hester and Henry, whither have you fled, — 
The ancient Church still holds the sacred form, 
And hollow ghosts stalk through the gloomy aisles, 
But Hester's form has fled, and Henry 's fled. 

How many Sabbaths did the heavy bell, 

Which pealed from out the square Tower's little arch, 

Strike through young Henry's heart a thrill of fear, 

Lest Hester might not be at church that day. 

Yet Hester came, and week succeeded week, 

And months fled by, and sometimes Hester came not- 

When she was absent, Henry felt how vain, 

How utterly vain and hollow was the Creed 

Taught from the Liturgy and New Testament. 

Not only in the sadden'd Minster's light, 
Young Henry sought the lovely Hester's shape, 
But when the choral stars shone bright in Heaven, 
Or when to earth fell heavily the storm, 
He paced the quiet street where Hester lived. 



FIRST LOVE. 57 

The close-drawn curtain kept his eye without, 
Still his heart beat, for there within those walls 
His spirit dwelt. The framework of the house 
Was hung as with a hundred starry lights, 
And silvery bells made music in the way. 
She dwelt so near the outward air, her life 
Mingled itself with the common circumstance ; 
But Henry could not call those happy hours. 
Deep melancholy fastened on the youth, 
His cheek grew pale, his heart was sorrowful, 
As day by day, the swift years circled on, 
Nor brought him nearer lovely Hester's form. 

Where'er he wandered through four lonely years, 
He saw a spirit dancing in the path, 
To whom he vainly hastened, — she did fly. — 
So deep below the daily life he lived, 
Consumed him this pure passion, that her name, 
Sometimes repeated when the youth sat near, 
Choked up his utterance, and a weight of blood 
Instantly stagnant, settled at his heart. — 
Thou dew of life, young Love, thou morning tear, 
Thus richly rises the sweet sun of youth. 



58 



THE DESERT. 



No shining grass, or sunny tree, 
Or smiling Villa greets my eyes, 

No forms of fair society, 
Or gentle domesticities, 

The scanty furze grows yellow all, 

Like threadbare Tapestry on the wall. 

But here I wandered most content, 
With one fair spirit by my side, 

A Sister to my manhood lent 

Her beaming eyes of maiden pride, 

And clothed the drear rock's loneliness 

With her abiding tenderness. 



THE DESERT. 



59 



So should she drape the World's wide round, 
With sunny robes, and fresh Spring weather 

And consecrate the loneliest ground, 
While we went wandering linked together, 

Her music voice, her beaming eyes, 

Give to the Silence, glad replies. 

Thy sandy hills, bleak desert Waste, 
Now murmur soft like singing streams, 

Thy lonely Moors with music taste 
Like temples clad in Grecian dreams, 

Thou Desert, art a living thing, 

Since she and I went wandering. 



60 



AUTUMN WOODS, 



I have had tearful days, 
I have been taught by melancholy hours, 
My tears have dropped, like these chill Autumn showers, 

Upon the rustling ways. 

Yes ! youth, thou sorrowest, 
For these dead leaves, unlike your rising Morn, 
Are the sad progeny of months forlorn, 

Weary and seeking rest. 

Thou wert a homeless child, 
And vainly clasped the solitary air, 
And the gray Ash renewed thy cold despair, — 

Grief was thy mother mild. 



AUTUMN WOODS. 61 

Thy days have Sunlight now, 
Those Autumn leaves thy tears do not deplore, 
There flames a beacon on the forest's shore, 

And thy unwrinkled brow. 

holy are the Woods, 
Where nature yearly glorifies her might, 

And weaves a rich and frolicsome delight, 
In the deep Solitudes. 

Far through the fading trees 
The Pine's green plume is waving bright and free, 
And in the withered age of man to me 

A warm and sweet Spring breeze. 



62 



THE LONELY ROAD. 



No track had worn the lone deserted road, 
Save where the Fox had leapt from wall to wall ; 
There were the swelling, glittering piles of snow, 
Up even with the walls, and save the Crow 
Who lately had been pecking Barberries, 
No other signs of life beyond ourselves. 
We strayed along, beneath our feet the lane 
Creaked at each pace, and soon we stood content 
Where the old cellar of the house had been, 
Out of which now a fruit-tree wags its top. 
Some scraggy orchards hem the landscape round, 
A forest of sad Apple-trees unpruned, 
And then a newer orchard pet of him, 
Who in his dotage kept this lonely place. 



THE LONELY ROAD. 63 

In this wild scene, and shut-in Orchard dell, 

Men like ourselves, once dwelt by roaring fires, 

Loved this still spot, nor had a further wish. 

A little wall half falling bounds a square 

Where choicer fruit-trees showed the Garden's pride, 

Now crimsoned by the Sumach, whose red cones 

Displace the colors of the cultured growth. 

I know not how it is, that in these scenes 

There is a desolation so complete, 

It tarries with me after I have passed, 

And the dense growth of woodland, or a sight 

Of distant Cottages or landscapes wide, 

Cannot obscure the dreary, cheerless thought. 

But why should I remember those once there, 

And think of childish voices, or that kind 

Caressing hands of tender parents gone, 

Have twined themselves in that soft golden hair, 

All fled, and silent as an unlit Cave. 

Why should I stand and muse upon their lives, 

Who for me truly never had more life, 

Than in the glancing mind's eye ; or in Fancy 

Wear this irrespective form, thus fleeting. 



64 THE LONELY ROAD. 

I people the void scene with Fancy's eye, 
Her children do not live too long for me, 
They vibrate in the house whose walls I rear, 
The mansion as themselves, the fugitives 
Of my Intent in this soft Winter day. 
Nor will I scatter these faint images, 
Idle as shadows that the tall reeds cast 
Over the silent ice, beneath the moon, 
For in these lonely haunts where Fancy dwells, 
And evermore creating weaves a veil 
In which all this that we call life abides, 
There must be deep retirement from the day, 
And in these shadowy vistas we shall meet, 
Sometime the very Phantom of ourselves. — 
A long Farewell, thou dim and silent spot, 
Where serious Winter sleeps, or the soft hour, 
Of some half dreamy Autumn afternoon ; 
And may no idle feet tread thy domain, 
But only men to Contemplation vowed, 
Still as ourselves, creators of the Past. 



65 



REPENTANCE. 



A cloud upon the day is lying, 
A cloud of care, a cloud of sorrow, 
That will not speed away for sighing, 
That will not lift upon the Morrow. 

And yet it is not gloom I carry, 

To shade a world else framed in lightness, 

It is not sorrow that doth tarry, 

To veil the joyous sky of brightness. 

Then tell me what it is, thou Nature 
That of all Earth art queen supremest, 
Give to my grief distinctest feature, 
Thou, who art ever to me nearest. 



66 REPENTANCE. 

Because my lot has no distinction, 
And unregarded I am standing, 
A pilgrim wan without dominion, 
A ship-wrecked Mariner just landing. 

Resolve for me, ye prudent Sages, 
Why I am tasked without a reason, 
Or penetrate the lapse of ages, 
And show where is my Summer season, 

For let the sky be blue above me, 
Or softest breezes lift the forest, 
I still uncertain, wander to thee, 
Thou who the lot of Man deplorest. 

Nor will I strive for Fortune's gilding, 
But still the Disappointment follow, 
Seek steadily the pasture's wilding, 
Nor grasp a satisfaction hollow. 



67 



THE ARCHED STREAM. 



It went within my inmost heart, 
The overhanging Arch to see, 

The liquid stream, became a part 
Of my internal Harmony. 

So gladly rushed the full stream through, 
Pleased with the measure of its flow, 

So burst the gladness on the view, 
It made a song of Mirth below. 

Yet gray were those o'erarching stones, 
And sere and dry the fringing grass, 

And mournful with remembered tones, 
That out of Autumn's bosom pass. 



68 THE ARCHED STREAM. 

And over it the heavy road, 

Where creaks the wain with burdened cheer, 
But gaily from this low abode, 

Leapt out the merry Brook so clear. 

Then Nature said : My child, to thee, 
From the gray Arch shall beauty flow, 

Thou art a pleasant thing to me, 
And freely in my meadows go. 

Thy Verse shall gush thus freely on, 
Some Poet yet may sit thereby, 

And cheer himself within the sun, 
My Life has kindled in thine eye. 



69 



A DREAM OUT-OF-DOORS. 



Though through the Pines a soughing wind, 
There 's sun within the trembling breeze, 
For continents do lie behind, 
Of rarest Flowers and Strawberries ; 
Each chilling blast shakes Cherries down, 
And tints the knurly Pear with brown. 

Your sooty cloaks bright skies resume, 
And weep with all-abandoned glee, 
The darkening eve shoots rose perfume, 
And cowslips nod, and Apple-tree 
Outshines the tapestry of the King, 
With red and white, a heaped thing. 



70 A DREAM OUT-OF-DOORS. 

Storm, rage, and fret, thou sullen March, 
Be black, or blue, or furious red, 
Springs roundly the o'erhanging arch 
With violets clustering o'er its head ; 
Thy sullen frowns I highly cheer, 
The green fields float, thy atmosphere. 

And long behind the Wall I lay, 
The gray stone wall with mosses laid, 
And heard above my head the day 
With eastern fingers twisting braid, 
Swift flew the wind, but I was warm, 
The sun was playing his gold charm. 

There as I lay, a drowsy eye 
Leered at me curious, till I sank 
And into sleepy lands did fly, 
While Lethe murmured down the bank, 
'T was warmer then than by the fire, 
More music in Apollo's lyre. 



A DREAM OUT-OF-DOORS. 71 

I dreamed that in the Church I stood, 
Dim were mine eyes the sun did blind, 
I never went to church for good, 
Nor this time left my rule behind ; 
I went to find my love who played , 
The School girl like a timid maid. 

They told me in the gallery then, 
That I should find my love so dear ; 
My eyes were blind, and I was ten, 
Yes ten good times the gallery near, 
When sudden blindness o'er me came, 
And still I went and still the same. 



And when I reached the topmost stair, 
Nor could my lovely Ellen see, 
I shouted, Ellen, Ellen dear, — 
She came from far behind to me ; 
You truant, was what I could say, 
As in her sweet embrace I lay. 



72 A DREAM OUT-OF-DOORS. 

And I awoke, and the east wind 
Did clamor through the old stone wall, 
And as I slept, soft clouds had lined 
The spanning of the azure Hall, 
There 's rain meseems within the sky, 
Since I in Ellen's arms did lie. 



Then blow cold March your trumpets shrill, 

Send if you can a biting storm, 

The nooks are sunny on the hill, 

The mossy stones are smooth and warm, 

For I can sleep and dream of thee, 

Within whose heart is Spring for me. 



73 



TO THE POETS 



They who sing the deeds of men, 
From the earth upraise their fame, 
Monuments in marble pen, 
Keeping ever sweet their name, 
Tell me Poets, do I hear, 
What you sing, with pious ear ? 

They who sing the Maiden's Kiss, 
And the silver Sage's thought, 
Loveliness of inward bliss, 
Or the graver learning taught, 

Tell me are your skies and streams 
Real, or the shape of Dreams ? 



74 TO THE POETS. 

Many rainy days must go, 
Many clouds the sun obscure, 
But your verses clearer show, 
And your lovely thoughts more pure. 
Mortals are we, but you are 
Burning keenly like a star. 



75 



THE MOUNTAINS. 



Toys for the angry lightning in its play, 
Summits, and peaks, and crests untrod and steep, 
And precipices where the eyes delay, 
Sheer gulfs that madly plunge in valleys deep, 
Overhung valleys curtained by dark forms, 
Ye, nourished by the energetic storms, 

I seek you lost in spell-bound shuddering sleep. 

Within your rifts hang gem-like crystal stars, 
Eyeless by day they glitter through the nights, 
Full-zoned Venus, and red visaged Mars, 
And that serenest Jupiter's round lights, 
Peer o'er your terrible eminences near, 
But throned too high to stoop with mortal fear, 
Dreading you not, ye Ocean-stemming heights. 



76 THE MOUNTAINS. 

Your awful forms pale wandering mists surround, 

Dim clouds enfold you in funereal haze, 

In the white frosted Winters ye abound, 

And your vast fissures with the Frost-work glaze, 

Slippery and careless of ascending feet, 

Holding out violent death, and thus may meet 

The Olympians, — mortals with unshrinking gaze, 

The fierce bald Eagle builds amid your caves, 
Shrieks fearless in your lonely places where 
Only his brothers of the wind make waves, 
Sweeping with lazy pinions the swift air, 
For far below the stealthy wolf retreats, 
The fox his various victims crafty greets, 

Breeze-knighted birds alone make you their lair. 

Sometime in the green valley peasants stand 
Shading their glance at mid-day as they pass, 
And wonder at such beacons in the land, 
Bending again their eyes upon the grass ; 
Ye heaven-high Mountains deign to stand alone, 
Only the airy amphitheatre to own, 

Only the shapely clouds, the snows' drear mass. 



THE MOUNTAINS. 77 

What are ye, grand, unuttered words of Power, 
Why stand you thus, balancing only earth, 
Shall not an echo wake, an untold hour 
Stir in your cavernous breasts a giant birth, 
Shall ye not answer to the roar of seas, 
Send back your greeting to the running breeze ; 
Mountains, I hear you, in your mighty mirth. 



78 



TO ONE COMPLAINING. 



Go to the waving tree, 

The level circle's golden round, 
Or on the margin of the Sea, 

List to the sound. 

I bid thee from the roof, 

Where underneath the dreary day, 
Puts thy frail spirit to the proof, 

To turn away. 

Speak not beneath the wall, 

God hears thee not while thou art there, 
But make thy consecrated hall 

The endless air. 



TO ONE COMPLAINING. 79 

Ride on the wild wind's mane 

When scornful Autumn hisses loud, 

Sing like the heavy Summer's rain, 
So stately proud. 

Have never-failing Hate, 

And be forbidden in thy deed, 
And make thyself all desolate, 

Nor sate thy need. 

Then when thy rage is spent, 

Thou shalt sit down to tell the tale, 

And as thou see'st the way thou went, 
Be clad in mail. 

Bad memories shall be, 

The storehouse of thy present worth, 
The Past shall win this stake for thee, 

Another birth. 



80 



MID-WINTER 



O sweetly falls the pure white snow 
Over the chill and silent earth, 
And warms the patient seed below, 
Waiting for Spring's voluptuous birth. 

Thus fall the gentle deeds of men, 
And nourish in those Hearts content, 
That wait for sunshine sweet again, 
And touches of that element. 

Thou art not cold to me, if gray 
And dimly shown the Heaven's smile, 
I am the child of Northern day, 
And love the Snow-drift's glittering pile. 



MID-WINTER. 81 

'Tis Freedom's writing, clear and white, 
Which Southern skies must long deplore, 
It sparkles in the depth of night, 
Conceals the Stars and paints them o'er. 



82 



WACHUSETT. 



I like this Princeton, a most silent place, 

Better than Chester, that I loved to pace 

So many years ago ; is stiller far, 

Less people, they not caring who you are, 

While Chester mortals have a certain wit, 

By which they know you, or can fancy it. 

In Princeton live a few good farming people, 

Like spectres in a church-yard, while a steeple 

Is pretty nigh the village, and one inn 

Which Sam. Carr keeps, lonely and cool within, 

One of the country taverns built before 

Our recollection, shortly after Noah. 

Here Boston sportsmen stop with dog and gun, 

To bag shy Woodcock, and have quiet fun, 



WACHUSETT. 83 

A ruddy, cheerful race, who interfere 

Never with you, in truth know not you are. 

No perfumed dandies smirch the lonely roads, 

No artists wander with their sketchy loads, 

'T is then a proper place for us to go, 

Who love old solitude and hate new show. 

I think it a good spot without this hill 

Wachusett, — a small mountain, cool and still 

As Princeton. To the summit is easy, 

With scattered outlooks picturesque and breezy, 

Not as flat level as a Salem beach, 

And yet within a feeble body's reach. 

A pleasant ramble up a rocky steep, 

'Neath shady woodlands, where some Woodgods sleep, 

Where maples, shad-barks, silver birches shine, 

Second-growth forest where gay trees combine. 

It has no grandeur like the proud White Hills, 
No cataract's thunder, steal no crystal rills 
Like those which line the Catskills half the way, 
And furnish comfort in a summer's day, 



84 WACHI7SETT. 

But the road up is dry as Minot's tongue, 

Or city people chance together flung. 

And off the summit one sees villages, 

Church spires, white houses, and their belts of trees, 

Plenty of farmers' clearings, and some woods, 

But no remote Sierra solitudes. 

I never counted up the list of towns, 

That I can see spread on the rolling downs, 

Or sought for names of mountains on the map, 

As Jackson might who is a Scenery-trap, 

But to my notion there is matter here, 

As pleasant as if larger or severe. 

*T is plain New England, neither more nor less, 

Pure Massachusetts-looking, in plain dress ; 

From every village point at least three spires, 

To satiate the good villagers' desires, 

Baptist, and Methodist, and Orthodox, 

And even Unitarian, creed that shocks 

Established church-folk ; they are one to me, 

Who in the different creeds the same things see, 



WACHUSETT. 85 

But I love clearly to look down at them, 

In rocky landscapes like Jerusalem. 

The villages gleam out painted with white, 

Like paper castles are the houses light, 

And every gust that o'er the valley blows, 

May scatter them perchance like drifting snows. 

The little streams that thread the valleys small, 

Make scythes or axes, driving factories all, 

The ponds are damned, and e'en the petty brooks, 

Convert to sluices swell the River's crooks, 

And where the land 's so poor, it will not pay 

For farming, winds the Railroad's yellow way. 

If in the Student's eye, this Yankee vein 

Of pure utility is but pure pain, 

If he shall ask for august Palace wall, 

Or figured arch, or learned College hall ; 

If he seek Landscape gardens midst those trees, 

Where hammers trip it like the hum of bees, 

Instead of corn-land for the shaven Lawn, 

Or one sane man who will his life adorn, 



86 WACHUSETT. 

Not a dry rank of Grocers, or of shops, 

Or women sometime conversant with mops, 

He asks for that Wachusett does not see, 

A watch-tower guarding pure utility. 

Why does the Student question what there is ? 

Grant it not Grecian, it is surely his ; 

Born in New England in her useful mood, 

Let him not feel as if in solitude ; 

The child of railroads, Factories, and farms, 

Let him not stand beside them with closed arms. 

Dwells not within the Locomotive's heart 

One of the purest ministries of Art, 

Can Poet feign more airy character, 

This burdened train few drops of water stir. 

Hear how it thunders down the iron road, 

Invulnerable horse, who drags a load, 

No matter what its shape, or weight, to him, 

Gallops by noon, and speechless midnight dim, 

Careless across the trembling, sunken moors, 

Under the mountains, past the people's doors, 



WACHUSETT. 87 

Through forest-thickets where the Partridge drums, 
Along the sea-beach where the salt spray comes, 
Hurled by the exercise of human thought, 
The man-created beast shows matter nought. 
Within his magic mind, a dreamy boy 
Converts this iron to a living toy, 
Shuts in a moment power of distances, 
Bids granite dance, and iron axles wince. 
Who cares what is the weather, good or bad, 
Within the Rail-car pleasant can be had, — 
Who cares where is the city, by his door, 
Rolls the swift engine, circling countries o'er. 

The Student grants it thus, — but selfish trade 
Along the fair inventions closely laid, 
Converts the country to a cunning town, 
Nothing can stand save beating prices down. 
Man's temple is the market, and his God 
Is money, fall of dollars Jovian nod. 
Society is leagued against the poor, 
Monopolies close up from most the door 



88 WACHUSETT. 

To fortune, Industry has come to be 
Competitive, all, — aristocracy ; 
Work is monotonous, a war for wealth, 
The universe is plainly out of health. 
See from this mountain in the dusty towns, 
A people sorely burdened, for smiles, — frowns, 
No lovely groups of rustics dig the soil, 
Alone each farmer ploughs, his greedy toil 
Not shared with them about him, but his hand 
Closed against those, who may the nearest stand. 
A piteous sight, there is the Poor-house wall, 
A frightful thing, there is the Prison's hall, 
The courts of Justice fatten on the broil, 
The church lamps feed on poor men's sweaty oil, 
Where shall this misery end, has God forsook 
The dwellers in these valleys, from the Book 
Of Life their names forever razed ; I see 
Nothing around us but deep misery. 

So spoke the Student ; in his eye swam tears, 
A sincere man, whose mournful, thoughtful years, 
Have run away in longings for that good, 
Which finds he only in some solitude, 



WACHUSETT. 89 

Where swing in sunny distances the trees, 

And squirrels chirp in frolic to the breeze, 

And o'er the grass the green snake winds along, 

Curving himself in like the Brook's clear song, 

Where pigeons glance about the murmuring boughs, 

And beetles hum, and the tall Pine-tree soughs. — 

Dear student, in that life, so sad to thee, 

Is better Nature, than all this to me. 

Thou dost not feel the sweetness of the art, 

When strikes the farmer in the earth his heart; 

His crops are wise instructions of the power, 

Which off his fingers reels the fruitful hour ; 

W r ith a father's fondness, o'er his rich Fields 

He looks content, and what the out-door yields, 

Within his bosom meets its answering tone, 

Nor is he satisfied to hold alone 

This credit of the world, but with his friend 

Who owns yon meadow, does his harvest blend 

In fair exchanges, as the honest earth 

For his just thoughts alone its crop gives birth. 

The neighbor in his mind, has his fit place, 

And trade is the keen Wizard's shifting mace 



90 WACHUSETT. 

By which he deals in untold craftiness 

With those about him ; they in turn confess 

The profit which this prudent Industry 

Has made for them, and kept their wits at sea. 

'Tis always the concealed, mysterious thought 

Which in his bargains somewhere shall be caught ; 

This competition is the mystic thing, 

He does not know its strength or power of wing, 

And only on his neighbor tries its force, 

Who can for him interpret its true source. — 

What is the cheer within the village street, 

Which makes the Court, the Jail, the Church complete, 

Save that each day 't is a new birth of mind, 

And these new men experiments can find ? 

So like a laboratory smells the town, 

These villagers the chemists, — skill the crown 

Which decks the royal head, — he is a King, 

Who from his cunning competence can bring. 

Shall witty scheme or formula compare 

With Nature's secret force, which can prepare 

Each hour new tactics for this village war, 

So gently waged, so little do they jar. 



WACHUSETT. 91 

And who do tenant then the Poor-house wall, 
And who are fastened in the Prison's hall, 
But those that baulk kind Nature in her play, 
Who thus has laid them up, and stored away. 
Is trade no happier than the game of old, 
When iron muscles played the trick for gold, 
When Barons led their fierce retainers forth, 
Like Kurroglou and battered down the earth, 
When no man's life was safe in wood or street, 
And the whole neighborhood a martial beat. 
Much I prefer to sit on Princeton hill, 
And see around me the results of skill, 
Where Mind does own the making of the thing, 
The age of muscle having had its swing. 
Are there no dear emotions in the vale, 
Does not the Maiden hear the lover's wail, 
Breathe gently forth below the Chesnut shade, 
Does not her bosom heave, and blushes fade 
Momently on her cheek, like shadows flying 
Across the woodlands while soft day is dying 
Upon that range of Hampshire hills, — does age 
No sweet respect from its young heirs engage, 



92 WACHUSETT. 

Sounds not the running Schoolboy's chorus cry, 

And village girls do they not smile and sigh ; 

Are not the wrinkles in that old man's brows, 

The fruit of battle with the winter snows, 

Or honest strokes beneath the summer's sun, 

Of his swift scythe, those curvatures have run ; 

Are there no merry parties for the lakes, 

And nutting frolics in the forest's brakes ; 

The horse, the cow, and dog play merry part, 

The humblest village beats with cheery heart. 

Within the plainest School-house lore is writ 

As good as Bible-story, part of it ; 

The city claims a visit every year, 

The Cattle-show is held each season near, 

A thousand books fly everywhere about, 

Of which the secret quickly is torn out, 

Sweet bread, rich milk, and apples weigh the board, 

The village, by its trade, doth spend not hoard. 

He who has craft, he gets respect from all, 

He who has none, by his deserts doth fall 

To his true level, and Nature dwelling here 

Tours out her sacred Instinct strong and clear. 



WACHUSETT. 93 

The Student said, — If all this, truly so, 

A stagnant element cakes deep below, 

The threadbare relic of the elder age, 

The heirloom of Judea, that sad page 

Recording the fantastic miracles 

Done in that day, which read like jugglers' spells, 

Or incantations in a tiresome play, 

Which later editors might crib away. 

How sadly serious is Religion now, 

That Seraph with her sparkling, crystal brow, 

In whose deep humane eyes the world should read, 

Tenderest consolation, and not bleed 

At their cold, spectral, grim, forlorn replies, 

Like one who stares at us with mere glass eyes. 

What awkward repetitions of a Creed, 

The pulpit and the minister, indeed, 

Where congregations meet for gossipping,. 

Or boys for show, and girls to learn to sing. 

Is this Religion, — Nature's other self, 

Or the last issue of the thirst for pelf, 

How cold to me the worn church-service is, 

I wonder that some people do not hiss. — 



94 WACHUSETT. 

O Student learn a wiser lore than thine, 

Deem me presumptuous, do not call it mine ; 

A lore I read upon the steel-blue lakes, 

And in the piled white clouds, this soft wind takes 

Like sailing navies, o'er the Atlantic heaven, 

A lore by Spirits to this mortal given, 

That teaches in whate'er our souls revere, 

Is the pure oxygen of that atmosphere, 

Which God presents our race to freely breathe, 

Which he does finely through our beings wreathe, 

And that we reverence has power sublime, 

Whether it be the birth of olden time, 

Or the last Spirit-prophecy of him 

Who dwelt on earth, a mild-eyed Seraphim. 

O Jesus, if thy spirit haunts that vale 

Whence softly on the air, the Church-bells wail. 

Swells up this silent mount, a prophecy," 

That thou didst teach our souls could never die ; 

If to some lonely heart, thy memory brings 

The healing of thy Beauty on its wings, 

And to this gentle heart its truth does say, 

That thou wert mild and gentle, pure alway ; 



WACHUSETT. 95 

Does promise after that hath left this shore, 
And when no longer sounds this hurried roar 
Of eager life, a rest in sacred camps, 
Where holy Angels tend unfading lamps, 
Where all that here this lowly heart did love, 
Dwells in the sunshine of that sphere above ; 
Where never sorrow, and where never pain 
Creep o'er the mind, as on the flowers the rain 
Of early winter, crossing out their flame ; 
Where music sounds perpetual the name 
Of an eternal Beauty, and where day 
Dies not in shadow on a mournful way ; 
Where shall that lowly heart meet better earth 
Than here was present, where shall a new birth, 
Quicken her faculties low lying sere, 
And thought's rich Compensation shall appear ; 
If thus to one pure heart in any vale, 
Above which now these vast w T hite clouds do sail, 
Thy lesson comes, though taught by miracles, 
And in the dark contrivances of spells, 
Yet shall each Church to me an altar seem, 
Of sculpture lovely as a maiden's dream, 



96 WACHUSETT. 

The lowly Hymn-book claim my gratitude, 
The least frail office chain my darkest mood, 
For I must feel such souls do dwell on earth, 
Who look afar for an immortal birth, 
And thou, serenest Jesus, art to them, 
The lustrous mild-eyed, blissful Seraphim. 

It is a busy mountain, — the wind's song 
Levels so briskly the oak-tops along, 
Which light October frosts color like wine, 
That ripens red on warm Madeira's line. 
I hear the rustling plumes of these young woods, 
Like young cockerels crowing to the solitudes 
While o'er the far horizon trails a mist, 
A kind of autumn smoke or blaze, — I list, 
Again, a lively song the woods do sing, 
The smoke-fire drifts about painting a ring 
Sublime, the centre of which is the mountain ; 
It rises like the cloud of some dark fountain 
At even-song ; the Indian summer's voice, 
Bids me in this last tropic day rejoice. 
How brown the country is, what want of rain, 
But no crops growing, no one will complain. 



WACHUSETT. 97 

The Indian summer, wan and waste and tame, 

Like the red nation whence it takes its name, 

Some relic of the season, a faint heat 

Which momently must into Winter fleet, 

The dying of the year, — the Indian time, 

How well they name it, how it suits the clime. 

The race who on this mountain once might stand, 

The country's monarchs wide on either hand, 

Bold as the July heats, and vigorous 

As August tempests, and more glorious 

Than splendid summer Moonlights, where are they ? 

Ah, like this summer, they did fade away 

Into the white snows of that winter race, 

Who came with iron hands and pallid face, 

Nor could the Indian look within his eye ; 

They turned, their frosts had come, their blight was 

nigh; 
Some praise their stately figure, or their skill, 
They straight submitted to the White man's will, 
Their only monument, a fading week, 
The Indian summer ; like the hectic cheek 

7 



98 WACHUSETT. 

Of a consumptive girl who ere her time, 
In some gay anguish half renews her prime, 
Shines in one summer moment, e'er the frost 
Crimsons her foliage before all is lost. 

Now the veiled sun is drooping to his fall, 
Weaving the western landscape a thick pall 
From the gigantic Air-smoke, through it slant 
His stretching beams, the mighty figures daunt 
The eye, far-shading level smoke that side, 
While eastward the white towns in sunshine ride. 
But all around this wonderful, wild haze, 
Like a hot crucible wherein the days 
And nights are melted by a giant hand, 
A terrible world, neither sea nor land, 
As if at last old earth had caught on fire, 
And slowly mouldering, sank into the pyre. 
To the dull north, a skeleton so dim, 
Is gray Monadnoc's head, and half of him, 
Looming out vaguely, as Gibraltar's rock 
Off Estepona, when the east wind's shock 



WACHUSETT. 99 

After a long gale from the sparkling west, 

Comes coldly down, but warms the seaman's breast, 

Anxious to fly Mediterranean calm, 

And clasp the ocean with his daring palm. 

Beneath the sun, like Saladin's bright blade, 

One glittering lake cuts golden the wide shade, 

And on some faint-drawn hill-sides fires are burning, 

The far blue smoke their outlines soft in-urning, 

And now half-seen the Peterboro' hills, 

Peep out like black-fish, nothing but their gills. 

Each feature of the scene itself confounded. 

Like Turner's pallet with strange colors grounded, 

It seems to gain upon me, shut me in, 

Creeps up to the brown belfry where I spin 

My fancies, like that last Man Campbell painted, 

Who finally 't is to be hoped was sainted. 

Who can be sad and live upon this earth, 
A scene like this would make a Hermit mirth, 
And turn mankind to Painters, or forswear 
All sympathies save with this landscape-air, 
While comes the breeze as gently as caress 
Of pensive lovers in first blessedness. 



100 WACHUSETT. 

A yellow tone sweeps southward the horizon, 

The sun to weaving deeper shadows plies on, 

More mountains loom, and hills burst up like isles 

Shot in the sea by Earth's galvanic piles ; 

One clear black spot hangs o'er the valley there, 

A solitary Hawk balanced on air ; 

Banks of gray squall-clouds swell below the sun, 

The lake turns steel, another sketch begun, 

Each instant changes everywhere the scene, 

Rapid and perfect turns the Indian screen. 

There comes a firmer yellow to the North, 

The sun just opening showers more glories forth, 

A lakelet dazzles like a bursting star, 

The landscape widens in that Hampshire far, 

The swelling lines of nearer hills arise, 

The greater mountains ope their dreamy eyes ; 

Out bursts the sun, turns villages to gold, 

Blazons the cold lake, burns the near cloud's fold, 

Drops splendidly a curtain of warm tints, 

And at an apple-green divinely hints. 

What land is this, not my New England drear ? 

'T is Spain's south border, or warm Naples' cheer, 



WACHT7SETT. 101 

Sweet Provence smiles upon the western side, 

And Azores' velvet on the molten tide. 

I see in front the great Savannahs lie, — 

The endless deserts burnt by Afric's eye, 

Shine in that dusky land the Moor's delight ; 

'T is Tangiers yonder and dark Atlas' height, 

Or Mauritania with her sable skins, 

And gold-dust rivers, elephants and kings, 

And yonder looms the sandy Arab coast, 

With yellow tassels of the Palm all crost, 

And in that valley bakes a torrid Fez ; 

He is not right, who our New England says 

Is a dread, cold inhospitable realm, — 

Guides not the South this glowing landscape's helm ? 

I hear the cawing of some drifting crows, 

Beneath in villages the watch-dog blows 

His bayings to the scene, and King-birds shriek, 

And stronger breezes fan the happy cheek, 

While purest roseate turns the western sky, 

Laughing to think that night has drawn so nigh. 

And like a ball of melted iron glows 

The sinking sun, leaves his last veil, and throws 



102 WACHUSETT. 

Upon the Eastern hills a gentle red, 
Upon those skies his rosy pencil spread, 
Then dies within that stormy mountain cloud, 
That masks him proudly in a leaden shroud. 



103 



THE POET. 



Each day, new Treasure brings him for his store, 
So rich he is he never shall be poor, 
His lessons nature reads him o'er and o'er, 
As on each sunny day the Lake its shore. 

Though others pine for piles of glittering gold, 
A cloudless Sunset furnishes him enough, 
His garments never can grow thin or old, 
His way is always smooth though seeming rough. 

Even in the winter's depth the Pine-tree stands, 
With a perpetual Summer in its leaves, 
So stands the Poet with his open hands, 
care nor sorrow him of Life bereaves. 



104 THE POET. 

For though his sorrows fall like icy rain, 
Straightway the clouds do open where be goes, 
And e'en his tears become a precious gain ; 
'T is thus the heart of Mortals that he knows. 

The figures of his Landscape may appear 
Sordid or poor, their colors he can paint, 
And listening to the hooting he can hear, 
Such harmonies as never sung the saint. 

And of his gain he maketh no account, 
He 's rich enough to scatter on the way ; 
His springs are fed by an unfailing fount, 
As great Apollo trims the lamp of day. 

'T is in his heart, where dwells his pure Desire, 
Let other outward lot be dark or fair ; 
In coldest weather there is inward fire, 
In fogs he breathes a clear celestial air. 

So sacred is his Calling, that no thing 
Of disrepute can follow in his path, 
His Destiny too high for sorrowing, 
The mildness of his lot is kept from wrath. 



THE POET. 105 

Some shady wood in Summer is his room, 
Behind a rock in Winter he can sit, 
The wind shall sweep his chamber, and his loom 
The birds and insects, weave content at it. 

Above his head the broad Skies' beauties are, 
Beneath, the ancient carpet of the earth ; 
A glance at that, unveileth every star, 
The other, joyfully it feels his birth. 

So let him stand, resigned to his Estate, 
Kings cannot compass it, or Nobles have, 
They are the children of some handsome fate, 
He, of Himself, is beautiful and brave. 



108 



TO THE PAST. 



These locks so light and thin, 
Once waved luxuriant o'er a playful brow ; 
The sunlight sends these eyes no pleasure now, 

Their harvests gathered in. 

Not one is spared to me, 
They all have fallen in Life's narrow field, 
Green waves the grass, their ashes are concealed, 

Remains their history. 

They fell not in the fight, 
Like steel-girt Warriors in the castle's breach, 
Their deeds did nothing high or mighty teach, 

A battle for the Right. 



TO THE PAST. 107 



But cold Forgetfulness, 
And ceremony with a tedious eye, 
And worldly Wisdom aping courtesy, 

And sickly stinginess ; 

These were their enemies, — 
Farewell ! though I am sad, yet in my heart 
There burns the splendor of a better part, 

That which ye cannot prize. 



108 



POEMS OF THE HEART. 



I. 

There in the old gray house whose end we see, 

Half-peeping through the golden Willow's veil, 

Whose graceful twigs make foliage through the year, 

My Hawthorne dwelt, a scholar of rare worth ; 

The gentlest man that kindly nature drew, 

New England's Chaucer, Hawthorne fitly lives. 

His tall compacted figure, ably strung 

To urge the Indian chase or guide the way, 

Softly reclining 'neath the aged elm, 

Like some still rock looked out upon the scene, 

As much a part of Nature, as itself. 

The passing Fisher, saw this idle man 



POEMS OF THE HEART. 109 

Thus lying solitary 'neath the elm, 

And as he plied with lusty arms his oar, 

Shooting upon the tranquil glass below 

The old red Bridge, and further on the stream 

To those still coves where the great prizes swim, 

Asked of himself this question, why that man 

Thus idly on the bank o'erhung the stream ? — 

Then by the devious light at twilight's close, 

He read the Twice-told Tales, nor dreamt the mind 

Thus idly musing by the River's side, 

Had gathered and stored up from Nature's fields 

This golden grain, and sweet nutritious fare, 

Nor saw within the blind man's eye that boy, 

The Gentle Boy, float o'er the tranquil tide. 

Softly from out the well-stored sunny brake, 
Or where the great Fields glimmer in the sun, 
Such mystic influence came to Hawthorne's soul, 
That from the air, and from the liquid day, 
He drank the subtle image of deep life. 
And when the grand and cumbrous Winter rose, 
Sealing the face of Nature as with stone, 
He sat within the Manse, and filled the place 



110 POEMS OF THE HEART. 

With all the wealth of Summer like a sun. — 
Yet were these plains more sacred in my eyes, 
That furnished treasure for his Kingly purse. 

ii. 

To thy continual Presence in me wrought, 
Vainly might I, a fallen creature, say, 
That I partake the blessedness of day, 
To thee, thou essence of Creation's thought. 
That on my verse might fall thy healing dew, 
And all its faults obscure, its charms renew. 
I praise Thee not, because Thou needest praise, 
What were my thanks, thou needest not my lays, 
Yet will I praise thee, for thou art the fire 
That sparkles on the strings of my dark lyre. 
Sole majesty, yet 'round us softly flowing, 
Unseen, yet in the common Sunset glowing, 
The fate of Universe, the tide of things, 
Sacred alike to all beneath thy wings, 
If Passion's trance lay on the writing clear, 
Then should I see thee evident and near, 
Passion, that breath of instinct, and the key 
Of thy dominions, untold Mystery. 



POEMS OF THE HEART. Ill 

III. 

It was the summer, and in early June, 

When all things taste the luxury of health, 

With the free growth of foliage on the trees, 

And o'er the fields a host of Clover blooms, 

And through the life and thought of the fresh world, 

Unsorrowing peace, and Love like softest air. 

'T was then I took my way along the hills, 

Upon the sandy road that devious winds ; 

At last, I came to happy Meredith. 

This beauteous spot is circled in with heights, 

And at a little distance Gunstock stands, 

A bare, bold mountain looking o'er the lake, 

That shines like glass within the emerald meads. 

Much was I pleased, to mark the simple life 
That man yet leads among the mountain shades, 
Nor failed to see a Farmer, who was born 
Upon the skle of Gunstock, where his sire 
Had tilled the fertile soil, — himself a son 
Of Nature, framed to love the heights and fields. 
The meaning of the landscapes in his heart, 
Shone with a rural splendor, and his eye 



112 POEMS OF THE HEART. 

Trembled with Humor as it roved abroad, 
Gladdened by each familiar scene of youth ; 
While in his mind the Words of men were stored, 
Quaint phrases, and wise sayings manifold. 
Not often have I met thus wise a man, 
Not often heard such merry words, and learned 
That Nature pours her wealth unstinted forth, 
Upon the unknown, careless, and remote. 

IV. 

The day has past, I never may return ; 

Twelve circling years have run since first I came, 

And kindled the pure truth of Friendship's flame, 

Alone remain these ashes in the urn ; 

Vainly for light the taper may I turn, 

Thy hand is closed, as for these years, the same, 

And in the substance nought is but the name, 

No more a hope, no more a ray to burn. 

But once more in the pauses of thy joy, 

Remember him who sought thee in his youth, 

And with the old reliance of the boy, 

Asked for thy Treasures in the guise of truth ; 



POEMS OF THE HEART. 113 

The air is thick with sighs, — the shaded sun 
Shows on the Hill-side, that the day is done. 



Tomorrow comes ; dost say my friend Tomorrow ? 
Far down below those Pines the Sunset flings 
Long arching o'er, its lines of ruddy light, 
And the wind murmurs little harmonies, 
And underneath their wings the tender birds 
Droop their averted heads, — silent their songs. 
But not a word whispers the moaning wind, 
Nor when in faint array the primal stars 
Trail with the banners of the unfurled night, 
Nor even when the low-hung moon just glints 
And faintlv with few touches seres the wood r 
Not there, nor then, doth Nature idly say 
Nor whisper idly of another day ; 
That other morn itself its morrow is, 
That other day shall see no shade of this. 

VI. 

A green and vaporous cloud of buds, the Larch 
Folds in soft drapery above the glade, 



114 POEMS OF THE HEART. 

Where deeper foliaged Pines high over-arch, 
And dignify the heavy, stooping shade, 
There yellow violets spring, in rarest show, 
And golden rods in secret clusters blow. 
There piping Hylas fill the helpless air, 
And chattering Black-birds hold their gossip by, 
And near I saw the tender maiden-hair, 
With the fine, breeze-born, white anemone ; 
The Glade, though undisturbed by human art, 
Has richer treasures than the busy mart. 



VII. 



As in some stately Grove of singing pines, 
One tree more marked than all, decisive rears 
Its grand aspiring figure to the sky, 
Remote from those beneath, and o'er whose top 
The first, faint light of dawn familiar plays, 
So in Count Julian's face there was the soul 
Of something deeper, than the general heart, 
Some memory more near to other worlds, 
Time's recollection, and the storied Past. 



POEMS OF THE HEART. 115 

His pure slight form had a true Grecian charm, 
Soft as the willow o'er the River swaying, 
Yet sinewy and capable of action ; 
Such grace as in Apollo's figure lay, 
When he was moving the still world with light, 
So perfect balanced, and convinced with art. 
About his forehead clustered rich black curls, 
Medusa-like, they charmed the student's eye. 
Those soft, still hazel orbs Count Julian had, 
Looked dream-like forth on the familiar day, 
Yet eloquent, and full of luminous force, 
Sweetly humane that had no harshness known, 
Unbroken eyes where Love forever dwelt. 
This art of Nature which surrounded him, 
This made Count Julian what he was to me, 
Which neither time, nor place, nor Poet's pen, 
Nor Sculptor's chisel can e'er mould again. 

VIII. 

O band of Friends, ye breathe within this space, 
And the rough finish of a humble man, 



116 POEMS OF THE HEART. 

By your kind touches rises into Art. 

I cannot lose a line ye bend to trace ; 

Your figures bear into the azure deeps, 

A little frail contentment of my own, 

And in your eyes I read, how sunshine lends 

A golden color to the dusty weed, 

That droops its tints where the soiled Pilgrims tread. 

IX. 

Believe, that thus a humble worshipper, 

Who in soiled weeds along this pathway 's going, 

To one of Nobler kind may minister, 

His lowly hope in such faint words bestowing ; 

O Lady, that my words for thee were more, 

But I have not the right to richer store. 

Thou art of finer mould, thy Griefs are proof, 

Only those nearest to the sun do burn, 

While we sit merry underneath the roof, 

And vainly to those larger empires turn ; 

Had I been heir of brightness such as thou, 

Then might a Sorrow seal my rounded brow. 



POEMS OF THE HEART. 117 



Ye mournful walls, that with a look of woe, 
Idly stand gazing in each other's face ; 
Ye eager, soulless crowds that coldly pass 
Forever 'neath those walls darkly contrived, 
And streets that are the wards of Misery ; 
Thou poor, and hunger-stricken, needless Town, 
That I delved lonely on some sea-washed moor, 
Delved with a hand of Pain the barren sands, 
All day beneath the scorching eye of Heaven, 
Or vacantly stood cold within the wind, 
Where rugged Winter nursed his rugged child, 
Yea ! on some bleak, bare, desolate place of rock,, 
Yea ! anywhere but here, in these dim shades, 
Within your shades, you high and gloomy walls. 
For I have been a walker in the fields, 
Oft in the woodland arches have I played, 
Seen many times the golden Day-god roll 
His round, expanded eyelids in the West, 
And bravely flaming, bid the world good-night, 



118 POEMS OF THE HEART. 

And to my ear the soft, pearl-handed Moon 
Hath played her ivory songs beneath the fringe, 
That night hangs over edged about with stars, 
But* thou, sad City, thou art not for me. 



119 



THE FADED FLOWERS. 



See these modest little Flowers, 
They were nursed by summer's rain, 
Many a day broad, sunlight hours 
Kept them free from chilling pain ; 
They that shall never feel again, 

Their little stems are broke away, 
Their bells so proud are withering, 
Child of dust, poor Child of clay, 
To thee does it no feeling bring, 
Does it no shadow on thee fling ? 

Mind me, in a certain hour, 
Hour when coming know not I, 
Like a little modest Flower 
Thou shalt wither, soon to die, 

Friends, near thee musing with wet eye. 



120 THE FADED FLOWERS. 

Then a bell shall toll I ween, 
Of the old Church sad and high, 
And they shall put thee 'neath the green 
Thick grass on the worn Hill-side nigh, 
Where many a year may thy bones lie. 

And a good Legend may be graved 
Upon the marble white and bold, 
Hoping that thou may'st be saved, 
Thy pure Virtue there enrolled, 

While thou sleepest in Death's large fold. 

Then shall modest, cheerful Flowers, 
Scatter their sweet colors on thee, 
All the livelong summer hours, 
Keep thee pleasant company, 
Gentle memories be to thee. 

Life's mystery is fearful large, 
What grows, — decays, is now, — then gone, 
Of thee, then let the Flowers keep charge, 
Small guardians not quite forlorn, 
And wc will sit, and sing, and mourn. 



121 



TO READERS. 



Dear reader ! if my verse could say, 
How in my blood thy Nature runs, 
Which manifesteth no decay, 
The fire that lights a thousand suns, 
How Thou and I art freely lent, 
A little of that element. 

If I could say what landscape says, 
And human pictures say far more, 
If I could twine the sunny days 
With the rich colors on the floor 
Of daily Love, how thou and I 
Might be refreshed with charity. 



122 TO READERS. 

For grateful is the softened smile 
Of Winter sunset o'er the snow, 
And blessed is the spheral isle, 
That through the unknown void must g 
The current of the stream is sweet, 
Where many waters closely meet. 



123 



THE WINTER LANDSCAPE. 



So pure and cold, the bleached Snow 

That loads the pine, and crowds the wood, 

That even as I lonely go, 
I feel no touch of Solitude. 

This drapery hangs so loosely o'er 
The leafless boughs, a passing breeze 

Shakes down a tribute to the floor, 
For life the Seasons cannot freeze. 

And merry sounds the passing Sleigh, 
In this bright Winter's softened air, 

For Nature ever will be gay, 

Her seeds, soft Blossoms ever bear. 



124 THE WINTER LANDSCAPE. 

You could not frown or scowl abroad, 
Whate'er your indoor malice plied, 

So bountiful this winter Lord, 

So splendidly his thought supplied. 

Like marble pillars are the tall 

Straight, oaken boles that close the lane, 
And alabaster carves the wall, 

The very path is free from stain. 

What if this wondrous purity 

Should pass within the human Will ? 

But Winter will not always be, 

And Summer smiles above that hill. 



125 



TO MY COMPANIONS. 



Ye heavy-hearted Mariners 

Who sail this shore, 
Ye patient, ye who labor, 

Sitting at the sweeping oar, 
And see afar the flashing Sea-gulls play, 
On the free waters, and the glad bright day, 
Twine with his hand the spray, 

From out your dreariness, 

From your Heart-weariness, 

I speak, for I am yours 
On these gray shores. 

In vain, — I know not, Mariners, 
What cliffs these are 



126 TO MY COMPANIONS. 

That high uplift their smooth dark fronts, 

And sadly 'round us bar ; 
I do imagine, that the free clouds play- 
Above those eminent heights, that somewhere Day 

Rides his triumphant way, 

Over our stern Oblivion, 

But see no path thereout 
To free from doubt. 



127 



A WOODLAND THOUGHT. 



The crashing Tree, the merry call 
Of woodmen in the frosty air, 
The voices of the drovers clear, 
And ringing axes here and there, 

These occupy the lonely ground, 

And scatter Human life around. 

No more that charming solitude 

Where swinging branches roar and sigh, 

For level is the Church-like wood, 

Its spires no longer pierce the sky, 

The partridge and the red deer fled, 

Where treads the swain, and creaks the sled. 



128 A WOODLAND THOUGHT. 

The oak shall never shed again 
That fawn-like Harvest in the fall, 
Nor acorns in the Autumn rain, 
From its deep clefts the squirrels call, 
But far away it rolleth free, 
And soon is planted in the sea. 

And when the frowning Tempest drives 
Those pinioned planks like dry leaves down, 
And when the billows wildly rage, 
And Men by death are quickly sown, 
'T is Autumn in the ocean's tide, 
And men to Acorns are allied. 



129 



ODE. 



If we should rake the bottom of the Sea 

For its best treasures, 

And heap our measures ; 

If we should ride upon the Winds, and be 

Partakers of their flight 

By day, and through the night, 

Intent upon this business to find gold, 

Yet were the story perfectly untold. 

Such waves of wealth are rolled up in thy soul, 

Such swelling Argosies, 

Laden with Time's supplies; 

Such pure, delicious wine shines in the bowl, 

We could drink evermore, 

Upon the glittering shore, 

9 



ODE. 

Drink of the Pearl -dissolved brilliant cup, 
Be madly drunk, and drown our thirsting up. 

This vessel richly chased about the rim, 

With golden emblems is 

The utmost art of bliss, 

With figures of the azure Gods who swim 

In the enchanted sea, 

Contrived for deity, 

Floating in rounded shells of purple hue, 

The Sculptor died in carving this so true. 

Some dry uprooted sapling we have seen, 

Pretend to even 

This grove of Heaven ; 

A sacred forest where the foliage green, 

Breathes Music like mild lutes, 

Or silver-coated flutes, 

Or the concealing winds that can convey, 

Never their tone to the rude ear of day. 

Some weary-footed mortals we have found 
Adventuring after thee ; 



ODE. 131 

They j — rooted, as a tree 

Pursues the swift breeze o'er a rocky ground ; 

Thy grand, imperial flight, 

Sweeping thee far from sight, 

As sweeps the movement of a Southern blast, 

Across the heated Gulf, and bends the mast. 

The circles of thy Thought, shine vast as stars, 

No glass shall round them, 

No plummet sound them, 

They hem the observer like bright steel wrought bars, 

And limpid as the sun, 

Or as bright waters run 

From the cold fountain of the Alpine springs, 

Or diamonds richly set in the King's rings. 

The piercing of thy Soul scorches the thought, 

As great fires burning, 

Or sunlight turning 

Into a focus ; in its meshes caught 

Our palpitating minds, 

Show stupid like coarse hinds, 

So strong and composite through all thy powers, 

The Intellect divine serenely towers. 



13*2 ODE. 

The smart and pathos of our suffering race 

Bears thee no harm, 

Thy muscular arm 

The daily ills of living doth efface ; 

The sources of the spring 

From whence thy instincts wing, 

Unsounded by the lines of sordid day, 

Enclosed with inlaid walls thy Virtue's way. 

This heavy Castle's gates no man can ope, 
Unless the lord doth will 
To prove his skill, 

And read the Fates hid in his horoscope ; 
No man may enter there, 
But first shall kneel in prayer, 
And to superior Gods orisons say, 
Powers of old time, unveiled in busy day. 

Thou need not search for men in Sidney's times, 

And Raleigh fashion, 

And Herbert's passion ; 

For us, they are but dry preserved limes ; 



ODE. 133 

There is ripe fruit to-day 

Hangs yellow in display, 

Upon the waving garment of the bough ; 

The graceful Gentleman lives for us now. 

Neither must thou turn back to Angelo, 

Who Rome commanded, 

And single-handed 

Was Architect, Poet, and bold Sculptor too ; 

Behold a better thing, 

When the pure mind can sing, 

When true Philosophy is linked with verse, 

When moral Laws in rhyme themselves rehearse. 

In city's street, how often shall we hear, 

It is a period, 

Deprived of every God ; 

A time of Indecision, and doom *s near ; 

When foolish altercation 

Threatens to break the nation, 

All men turned talkers, and much good forgot, 

With score of curious troubles we know not. 



134 ODE. 

By this account their learning you shall read, 

Who tell the story, 

So sad and gory, 

People that you can never seek in need ; 

The pigmies of the race 

Who crowd the airy space, 

With counterfeit presentments of the Man, 

Who has done all things, all things surely can, 

We never heard thee babble in this wise, 

The age creator, 

And clear debater 

Of that which this good Present underlies; 

Thy course is better kept, 

Than where the dreamers slept, 

Thy sure meridian taken by the sun, 

Thy compass pointing true as waters run. 

In vain, for us to say what thou hast been 

To the occasion, 

The flickering nation, 

This stock of people from an English kin ; 

And he who led the van, 



ODE. 135 

The frozen Puritan, 

We thank thee for thy patience with his faith r 

That chill delusive poison mixed for death. 

So moderate in thy lessons, and so wise, 

To foes so courteous, 

To friends so duteous, 

And hospitable to the neighbor's eyes ; 

Thy thoughts have fed the lamp 

In learning's polished camp, 

And who suspects thee of this well-earned fame, 

Or meditates on thy renowned name. 

Within thy Book, the world is plainly set 

Before our vision, 

Thou keen Physician ; 

We find there wisely writ, what we have met 

Along the dusty path, 

And o'er the aftermath, 

Where natures once world-daring held the scythe, 

Nor paid to Superstition a mean tithe. 






136 ODE. 



Great persons are the epochs of the race, 

When royal Nature 

Takes form and feature, 

And careless handles the surrounding space ; 

The age is vain and thin, 

A pageant of gay sin, 

Without heroic response from the soul, 

Through which the tides diviner amply roll. 

The pins of custom have not pierced through thee, 

Thy shining armor 

A perfect charmer ; 

Even the hornets of Divinity, 

Allow thee a brief space, 

And thy Thought has a place, 

Upon the well-bound Library's chaste shelves, 

Where man of various wisdom rarely delves. — 

When thou dost pass below the forest shade, 
The branches drooping 
Enfold thee, stooping 



ODE. 137 

Above thy figure, and form thus a glade ; 

The flowers admire thee pass, 

In much content the grass, 

Awaits the pressure of thy firmest feet, 

The bird for thee sends out his greetings sweet. 

And welcomes thee designed, the angry Storm, 

When deep-toned thunder 

w 

Steals up from under 

The heavy-folded clouds, and on thy form 

The lightning glances gay 

With its perplexing ray, 

And sweep across thy brow the speeding showers, 

And fills this pageantry thy outward hours. 

Upon the rivers thou dost float at peace, 

Or on the ocean 

Feelest the motion ; 

Of every Natural form thou hast the lease, 

Because thy way lies there, 

Where it is good or fair ; 

Thou hast perception, learning, and much art, 

Propped by the columns of a stately heart. 



138 ODE. 

From the deep mysteries thy goblet fills, 

The wines do murmur, 

That Nature warmed her, 

When she was pressing out from must the hills, 

The plains that near us lie, 

The foldings of the sky, 

Whate'er within the horizon there is, 

From Hades' cauldron, to the blue God's bliss, 

We may no more ; so we might sing foro'cr, 

Thy Thought recalling, 

Thus waters falling 

Over great cataracts, from their lakes do bear, 

The power that is divine, 

And bends their stately line ; 

All but thy Beauty, the cold verses have, 

All but thy Music, organ-mellowed nave. 



139 



HYMN OF THE EARTH. 



My highway is unfeatured air, 

My consorts are the sleepless Stars, 

And men, my giant arms upbear, 

My arms unstained and free from scars. 

I rest forever on my way, 
Rolling around the happy Sun, 
My children love the sunny day, 
But noon and night to me are one. 

My heart has pulses like their own, 
I am their Mother, and my veins 
Though built of the enduring stone, 
Thrill as do theirs with godlike pains. 



140 HYMN OF THE EARTH. 

The forests and the mountains high, 
The foaming ocean and the springs, 
The plains, — O pleasant Company, 
My voice through all your anthem rings, 

Ye are so cheerful in your minds, 
Content to smile, content to share, 
My being in your Chorus finds 
The echo of the spheral air. 

No leaf may fall, no pebble roll, 
No drop of water lose the road, 
The issues of the general Soul 
Are mirrored in its round abode. 



141 



AUTUMN. 



Once more I feel the breezes that I love 

Of Spanish autumn stabbing leaf and flower, 

Cold cuts the wind, the gray sky frowns above, 
The world enjoys a gloomy hour. 

I love thee, Autumn, ruthless harvester ! 

Thou dost permit my stagnant veins to flow, 
And in my heart a Poet's feelings stir, 

To thee a Poet's fruits I owe. 

My boughs shall hang with ripened tribute due, 
I will repay the life that in me lies, 

The cold wind shakes off fruits the which if true, 
Must gathered be by those sweet eyes. 



142 



MARIANA, 



He loves me not, — she stands as if entranced, 
He loves me not, and I am all alive, — 
Around her waist her floating tresses dance, 
I gave, — she said, — what woman has to give, 
My life, my love, my heart, and I am now, 
The crimson leaf upon the frozen Bough. 

I gave, such agonies are in that thought, 
The jewels of an Empire for his song, 
The vestments that by purity were wrought, 
Which should of right to Princes high belong, 
I stand a beggar now beneath the throne, 
I am a wanderer forsaken, and alone. 



MARIANA. 143 

Would the calm Hope of childish sleep was mine, 
Would I went gathering flowers across the fields, 
When innocence did the pure sense confine, 
And the enjoyment that young nature yields, 
I see upon the landscape a dull cloud, 
The shadow of a weary Heart, and shroud. 

And I have sat upon a Parent's knee, 

Listening to stories of the immortal few 

Who in this sinful world were good and free, 

Longing to follow and that life pursue ; 

'T is past, the world contains their form no more, 

I am unanchored, distant is the shore. 

Repent ! how bitterly, I might repent ! 

It could not give me back my dreams of youth, 

It could not bathe me in the element, 

The lovely radiance of unspotted Truth ; 

My love is false, but I am worse than he, 

I have no hope, — he has Dishonesty. 



144 



THE ISLAND NUKUHEVA. 



It is upon the far-off deep South Seas, 

The island Nukuheva, its degrees 

In vain, — I may not reckon, but the bold 

Adventurous Melville there by chance was rolled, 

And for four months in its delights did dwell, 

And of this Island writ what I may tell. 

So far away, it is a Paradise 

To my unfolded, stationary eyes, 

Around it white the heavy billows beat, 

Within its vales profoundest cataracts meet, 

Drawn from the breasts of the high purple mountains, 

And to those Islanders perpetual fountains. 

One vale there is upon this southern Isle, 
This seal of velvet on the Ocean's smile, 



THE ISLAND NUKUHEVA. 145 

One vale, all breasted in with precipices, 
Whose ample side the clinging root caresses, 
And from the Ocean to the mountain's face, 
But some few miles their interventions trace : 
Within this narrow limit there are men, 
Of whom I loved to read, and read again, 
Such strange and placid lives there seem to be, 
Upon that vale far on the deep South Sea. 
There, like our village elm, the Bread-fruit grows, 
Its green pavilions in broad circle shows ; 
The scollopped leaves group splendid in decay, 
Their rainbow tints oft parted in display, 
Upon the brow of the gay Islanders, 
Whose heart more serious business rarely stirs. 
And when the fruit shines golden in the sun, 
Like citron Melons on the vast vine hung, 
The Typee farmers gather in the grain, 
That in great forests heaps its verdant wain, 
No dusty Ploughman breaks the heavy clod, 
But crops in native clusters freely nod. 
There the smooth trunks of the tall Cocoa-nut, 
Rise in abundance near the graceful hut ; 
10 



146 THE ISLAND NUKTTHEVA. 

The scarce-seen fruit in Heaven it seems to be, 
But Typee men ascend the slippery tree, 
Where from the centre shoot the waving leaves, 
With rich grain burdened like our Indian sheaves, 
From which is drawn that nectar most divine, 
Nature's blanched vintage of Marquesan wine ; 
There, waving Omoos vibrate in the air, 
Bananas spread their yellow clusters fair. 
Along this Typee vale, houses are strown 
At easy distance, separate not alone ; 
Of bamboo, reed, and cocoa-nut's fine boughs, 
The hut is built, whose pliant strength allows 
Many reverses, — the interlacing sides 
Of open cane-work, where the windy tides 
Circulate free, and colored Sinnate binds 
With various hues the light ethereal blinds ; 
Then, almost to the ground, the sloping roof 
Thatched with Palmetto's tapering leaves, is proof 
Against the rains, while from the modest eave 
Its tassels droop, and thus the eye relieve. 
Two trunks of Cocoa-nut lay polished high 
Within, — upon the ground the mats descry 



THE ISLAND NUKUHEVA. 147 

Which gaily-worked form grateful seats by day, 
While there at night, the supple limbs obey 
The natural instinct sunk in sleep profound, 
Upon the simple couch nearest the ground. 
The path that goes by these light cottages, 
Was never made for horse to pace with ease, 
Broad, dusty, strait, and lined with smooth stone-walls, — 
Here, droops the pathway with the vale's deep falls, 
Now leaps upon the curving hillock's side, 
Then, down the glens in rapid mood doth glide, 
Crosses the Brook's flint-channel, then away 
Turning stupendous rocks, or where the day 
Rarely descended in Time-hallowed groves, 
Where rotting trunks give to the earth their loves, 
By shade and flashing sunlight parted oft, 
Or gently winded o'er the verdure soft. 

King of the Typees, reigned Mehevi tall, 

His mighty stature rising above all, 

Of Paradise plumes his gorgeous head-dress made, 

With the cock's gaudy plumage interbraid, 

A semi-circle high in beads is laid. 



148 THE ISLAND NUKUHEVA. 

His neck-lace of Boars-tusks like ivory bright, 
Depending freely o'er a breast of might, 
His ear-rings fabricate of sperm whale teeth, 
The fronting ends freshly-plucked leaves enwreath, 
And wrought with odd devices at the other, 
Of which the Typee worship is the mother ; 
His loins girt round with Tappa-cloth in folds, 
Dark-colored, clustered tassels, — who beholds 
His wrists and ancles, sees the curling hair 
Of some dead enemy, in circles there. 
His well-carved spear of bright Koar-wood is made, 
One end points sharp, one is the flat oar-blade ; 
His decorate pipe a sinnate loop doth hold, 
Hanging from his girdle, painted like red gold 
Its slender reed-stem, and the Idol-bowl 
Flutters with thinnest Tappa, so the whole. 
Over his skin like finest lace-work drawn, 
Endless tattooings the great limbs adorn, 
And a broad triangle upon his face, 
Across his eyes, across his lips finds place. 

'T is different, the sweet shape of Fayaway, 
To her, the grand Mehevi, night by day. 



THE ISLAND NUKUHEVA. 149 

The Typee maiden with her olive skin, 

Through which a soft vermilion shines within, 

Her dazzling teeth, like arta's milk-white seeds, 

Her soft smooth form contrived for fairy needs. 

Upon her naked shoulders flowed her hair 

Of deepest brown, which like a mantle rare 

In natural ringlets dressed her in its pride, 

Her hands as soft as Countess', — she, the bride 

Of Nature, who in captivating mood, 

Sculptured this maiden for this solitude. 

Her dress at home was a slight belt of bark, 

With some leaves, like those Fig leaves (save the mark), 

Which our first Parents found, but in this she 

Moved like a creature wove of sanctity, 

Fell like a sunbeam in that summer world, 

Beneath those skies her native grace unfurled. 

Her jewels were the small Carnation flowers, 

Strung in necklaces, rubies for some hours, 

On a slight thread of tappa, — in her ear 

One small white bud, its stem behind, a sphere 

Of purest pearl, its delicate petals close, 

Her bracelets flowers, and anklets, like a rose 



150 THE ISLAND NUKUHEVA. 

Set in a folded circle of sweet things, 

Or like a soft Spring hour when one bird sings. 

Upon the vale the white snows are not sown, 
Winter has never been there, but alone 
One endless early Summer reigns content, 
Ripens sweet fruits in this fine element. 
Temperate live the Islanders, the trees 
Themselves prepare their food, their perfect ease 
Ever consulted by the passing wind ; 
They live, like youthful fancies, in the mind. 

Into the sparkling streams the Maidens spring, 

Dash in the cool, clear waters, laugh and sing, 

Anoint themselves with " aker," or that oil 

Of cocoa-nuts, prepared with pleasant toil, 

Shut as it is, within the " moo-tree's " nut, 

Which when carnation -tinted then is cut, 

The odorous globe within fragrant with rind, 

Of a light yellow all perfumed they find ; 

Then wreathed with flowers their sportive dances try, 

Or couched the pipe to their sweet lips apply, 



THE ISLAND NUKUHEVA. 151 

Or to their nostrils put the scarlet reed, 

And with soft lullabies their fancies feed. 

Some in gay parties with their lovers find, 

In the deep groves the bright banana's rind, 

And never doomed to labor's slow decay, 

Shall these fair Typee maids wear out the day, 

But like a band of spirits linked together, 

Weave through the landscapes dances in fair weather. 

In that sweet vale where Nature serves her lord, 
The land is equal, sounds no Tyrant's word ; 
Upon the doors no padlocks shall you see, 
The Warrior's spear stands out against the tree, 
The maiden's brooch hangs careless from the roof, 
The door is open, but the heart is proof. 
There is no prison, neither fence nor road, 
The land is but the man's desired abode, 
What there is worth is freely shared by all, 
No man is sad, and life a festival. 
Within the forests ne'er the Lion's hum, 
No wild beasts from the mountain-deserts come, 
No snakes crawl hissing o'er the fruitful ground, 
But sportive lizards golden-hued abound, 



1 52 THE ISLAND NUKUHEVA. 

And purple-azure birds flit freely by, 

Or crimson, white, and black, and gold come nigh, 

Fly not at man's approach, and fear no harm, 

Sometimes alight upon the extended arm, 

But trill no reedy notes in those high woods, 

Silent save roar of Falls those solitudes. 

And in this happy vale the " Taboo " rites, 

Cast a religious awe o'er many sites, 

And feasts of Calabash are freely set, 

In " Hoolah-Hoolah " grounds the men are met ; 

The delicate fair maids are all forbid 

To enter there, and cannot be Priest-rid. 

Ah ! lovely vale, why art thou called that name, 
The land of Cannibals, — did nature tame 
Thy happy groups, and Paradise make thee 
In some forgetful moment, savagely 
Turning, and for her frolics bid thee eat 
Her Happar children, yon the mountain's feet ? 



153 



THE ICE RAVINE. 



Never was the sight more gay, 
Down the rapid water flows, 
Deep the ravine's Rondelay, 
Stealing up the silent snows. 

Like an Organ's carved wood- work, 
Richly waxed the Ice-tubes stand, 
Hidden in them stops do lurk, 
And I see the Master's hand. 

Swift his fingers strike the keys, 
Glittering all with rings of light, 
Bubble's break and born with ease, 
Sparkle constant, swift and bright. 



154 THE ICE RAVINE. 

Now upon the rocks, the roar 
Of the Streamlet beats the bass, 
Deeply murmuring through the floor 
Of sparse snow and frozen grass. 

Red as ruby wine the hue 
Of the running Brook that brings, 
Through the Ice-ravine this true 
Music for the native kings. 

Solemn stands the Ash-tree near, 
Not one leaf upon his crown, 
Still the Barberry, still the clear 
Landscape of the meadows down. 

Thus they listen every day, 
Wind may roar and rain may run, 
Clear or dull the Streamlet's play 
Sounds that music, All in One. 



155 



THE BARREN MOORS. 



On your bare rocks, barren moors, 
On your bare rocks I love to lie, — 
They stand like crags upon the shores, 
Or clouds upon a placid sky. 

Across those spaces desolate, 
The fox pursues his lonely way, 
Those solitudes can fairly sate 
The passage of my loneliest day. 

Like desert Islands far at sea 
Where not a ship can ever land, 
Those dim uncertainties to me, 
For something veritable stand. 



156 THE BARREN MOORS. 

A serious place distinct from all 
Which busy Life delights to feel, 
I stand in this deserted hall, 
And thus the wounds of time conceal 

No friend's cold eye, or sad delay, 
Shall vex me now where not a sound 
Falls on the ear, and every day 
Is soft as silence most profound. 

No more upon these distant wolds 
The agitating world can come, 
A single pensive thought upholds 
The arches of this dreamy home. 

Within the sky above, one thought 
Replies to you, O barren Moors, 
Between, I stand, a creature taught 
To stand between two silent floors. 



157 



WALDEN. 



It is not far beyond the Village church, 

After we pass the wood that skirts the road, 

A Lake, — the blue-eyed Walden, that doth smile 

Most tenderly upon its neighbor Pines, 

And they as if to recompense this love, 

In double beauty spread their branches forth. 

This Lake had tranquil loveliness and breadth, 

And of late years has added to its charms, 

For one attracted to its pleasant edge, 

Has built himself a little Hermitage, 

Where with much piety he passes life. 

More fitting place I cannot fancy now, 
For such a man to let the line run off 
The mortal reel, such patience hath the lake, 
Such gratitude and cheer is in the Pines. 



158 WALDEN. 

But more than either lake or forest's depths, 
This man has in himself; a tranquil man, 
With sunny sides where well the fruit is ripe, 
Good front, and resolute bearing to this life, 
And some serener virtues, which control 
This rich exterior prudence, virtues high, 
That in the principles of Things are set, 
Great by their nature and consigned to him, 
Who, like a faithful Merchant, does account 
To God for what he spends, and in what way. 
Thrice happy art thou, Walden ! in thyself, 
Such purity is in thy limpid springs ; 
In those green shores which do reflect in thee, 
And in this man who dwells upon thy edge, 
A holy man within a Hermitage. 
May all good showers fall gently into thee, 
May thy surrounding forests long be spared, 
And may the Dweller on thy tranquil shores, 
There lead a life of deep tranquillity 
Pure as thy Waters, handsome as thy Shores 
And with those virtues which are like the Stars. 



159 



OF KEATS 



Tis said, a Keats by critics, once was killed, 
Alas ! they have lacked power to do this thing 
In these late days, or else some blood was spilled, 
They softly bite to-day, or kick and fling. 

Let them pluck courage from the Bravo's knife, 
And stick their victims in small streets by dark, 
Or somehow skillfully cut out their life, 
Do something that must pain them, but not bark. 

And most of all let them kill Keats alway, 
Or him that can be killed, as sure as steel, 
For many Keats's creep about our day, 
Who would not furnish Heroes half a meal. 

Who writes by Fate the critics shall not kill, 
Nor all the assassins in the great review, 
Who writes by luck his blood some Hack shall spill, 
Some Ghost whom a Musquito might run through. 
// / " y 



160 



OF KEATS. 



Of Keats' poetry I have small taste, 

But trust some Critics still are in the field, 

Whose well-puffed Pills are not composed of paste, 

Whose swords of lath with wisdom they do wield. 

For me, I trust they will not spare one line, 
Or else in frozen silence may abide, 
Pray may they hack like butchers at all mine, 
And kill me like that Keats if it betide. 

Or if they courteous damn me with faint praise, 
Let some old Hunter of the pack be set 
To track me out, and fasten on my lays 
His toothless gums, or let them all forget. 

I ope my arms to them, — the world beside, — 

awful God ! who over verse dost sway, 
Thine eye does scan me, — in thy flowing tide, 
I, like a leaf, am eddying whirled away. 

Could but the faintest echo from my lyre, 
Within Thy ear awake one choral thought, 

1 then had gained my earnest Heart's desire, 
This battle then securely I had fought. 



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